Holidays in Eden
by YeahLev
Summary: Pre-series. Nate Ford is a family man. Eliot Spencer is trying to put his past with Moreau behind him. When Nate hires Eliot for a dangerous retrieval, they hate each other. But when they run afoul of a cartel enforcer, they have to learn to work together.
1. Prologue

**HOLIDAYS IN EDEN**

The creatures of the forest bid you  
"Welcome to the dark,"  
Nothing here can hurt you  
Darkness has no heart.

**PROLOGUE**

_October 2004_  
_Miraflores, Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_Day 2_

The soldiers stepped around the jeep, and Ford stopped walking towards them. He was looking at their feet. They were wearing boots. Rubber boots. The same rubber boots Eliot had pointed out in Jorge Cabrera's front yard. These guys weren't military. They were FARC.

Ford turned back to Eliot, eyes urgent and questioning. Was he watching this? Wasn't he going to do something?

Eliot just leaned back in his seat and shrugged. He crossed his arms over his chest and ignored the sting he felt at the accusation written all over Ford's face.

It wasn't his fault. He'd given Ford a way out in Miraflores. He couldn't help it if Ford had been too stubborn to take it.

Whatever happened now was out of his hands.

* * *

**Just a Few Notes:**

Well, first and foremost, a giant thanks goes to Conelrad, an amazing writer whose fic you should check out if you haven't. We had endless google chats about concept and narrative and she contributed snippets in chapters 2, 5 and 6. We had hoped to do a full-on co-written story, but alas, life intervened! Maybe next time . . .

This fic was written as part of the Leverage BigBang over at LJ, and and I also want to thank weaselett over there for her assistance in beta'ing a good portion of this. Any errors that remain are mine and mine alone.

This story is set in California and Colombia and liberties are sometimes taken with geographic locations and historical background to suit the story. I also cannot for the life of me figure out how to get the punctuation correct on the Spanish snippets in here, so please forgive the lack of proper accents, etc. I will eventually conquer it, just not today.

This story is fully written, so there should be regular updates.

Enjoy!


	2. Chapter 1

_October 2004_  
_Los Angeles County, California_

The first time he met Nathan Ford, it was at a Mexican place in Reseda - a taco stand really, an old Airstream camper that some enterprising soul had converted into a kitchen and plunked down at the edge of a strip mall parking lot.

It was the first time he met Nathan Ford, but he'd heard the name of course, and he knew the reputation.

(Which depending on the source, ranged from "lucky asshole" to "shrewd bastard" to "Insurance Terminator.")

(The last one from his particularly colorful friend Jacques during a particularly long night of drinking, a good hour of which involved Jacques comparing Ford to every movie villain from Hannibal Lecter to Jaws. "That big dude with the metal teeth?" Eliot asked around the rim of his shot glass. "No! Non non, not the guy. The shark! Because if Nathan Ford is after you-" Jacques had paused for dramatic effect, slamming back his shot - "_you are going to need a bigger boat_!")

Ford's employer was IYS Insurance, and Eliot knew it too. International insurance company, big book of specialty business - fine arts, antiques, collectibles. Rare things. Expensive things.

Eliot had been a retrieval specialist for 18 months, and in all that time, he had never worked for IYS or any place like it, because IYS was - in the eyes of the world - a legitimate business. The kind with real annual reports and actual offices and employees with 401(k)s and dental plans.

And wouldn't that be something? Eliot Spencer working for a legit business?

He would have laughed if he didn't want it so badly.

* * *

He'd worked for a "businessman" on his last job, or at least that's what the guy liked to call himself. And while the guy did look very respectable in a suit, he wasn't exactly sitting behind a desk all day reading financial reports and signing contracts.

He hired Eliot to go to Japan and retrieve a stolen samurai helmet. The fact that it had not actually been stolen from him was not a detail Eliot dwelled on. The guy wanted the helmet, the helmet was stolen from the museum that owned it, and so as far as Eliot was concerned,_ finders keepers_. As long as the "businessman" was willing to pay him, he could have cared less who had rights to it.

Except it did mean he was competing for the thing with the Japanese national police, a local insurance investigator named Sato and thief who stole it - some crazy little blonde chick who liked to leap off buildings like some kind of urban flying squirrel.

And that was before the Yakuza got involved, because the boss at Kobe Harbor also took the _finders keepers_ approach and promised the helmet to his mother, who believed her grandmother had been in love with the samurai who wore it. (People got so sensitive when their mothers were involved.)

And that was before the client got antsy and hired two other retrieval specialists to compete with him, because it took more than like two seconds for him to retrieve the thing. (Which was particularly galling since they were stupid and incompetent, and if that was his competition, why the hell wasn't he getting more work?)

The whole thing came to a head in Kobe Harbor on a docked cargo ship that was illegally transporting exotic wildlife. Eliot, Sato, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, a dozen armed Yakuza henchmen, and container after container of snakes, geckos, salamanders and tortoises - all with an army of police officers and environmental agents bearing down on them from the docks outside.

(The little thief was nowhere to be found, apparently having decided that the whole scene was too crazy even for her. She disappeared into thin air before they ended up on the boat.)

By then, Eliot was in the cargo hold, and he had the helmet, and so it was just a matter of getting through the fifteen people between him and the deck. (And also all those authorities waiting outside.)

The first thing he did, he took the Tweedles' guns. One moment, they were bearing down on him, arms outstretched, guns pointed, and the next they were stumbling onto the floor at the Yakuza's feet, staring at their own empty hands where their SIGS used to be. Then staring at Eliot, who was holding them.

The faces of all those men changed once he was armed. He stood in front of them, a gun in each hand, one man versus fifteen in the thick air and heavy shadows of the cargo hold, and he watched their faces.

When he took the job, he didn't plan to kill anyone.

But standing there armed, the fear and apprehension in the eyes of the men around him . . .

Maybe it was the way the client undercut him.

Or the Yakuza. (He always hated the Yakuza.)

Maybe it was the fact that he himself had always used SIGs, so they felt natural in his hand - the weight, the snug fit of the handle in the pocket between his thumb and forefinger.

Maybe it was just who he was.

But standing there armed, the fear and apprehension in the eyes of the men around him, he had the clearest, calmest vision of exactly what he could do with those guns, to everyone in the room, man and reptile alike. Could hear how the _pop pop pop_ would echo; feel the recoil tingling in his his wrists and elbows; smell the smoke and the blood.

It took him out of himself.

Just for the briefest moment - for a split second. But when he came back, he realized his fingers were on the triggers and he was less than a second from firing.

It scared the hell out of him.

He took a deep breath, heart hammering in his ears.

Then he unloaded the clips and emptied the chambers, while the Yakuza and even the Tweedles gaped at him. They were too shocked to make a move at first, but then they started smirking and moving in, surrounding him.

Only Sato held back, apprehensive.

Sato was right.

Five minutes later, the Tweedles and the Yakuza were sprawled across the floor and the stairwell and upturned reptile containers. Snakes were slithering around wildly looking for shelter and Sato was locked to a rail with his own handcuffs.

Eliot gave him a polite nod on his way out, which Sato kindly returned, and then Eliot and the helmet went for a long swim off the starboard side, just as the authorities were storming the port.

Then he cashed in on the helmet, he promised himself he'd never work for that "businessman" again, and he called Jacques.

* * *

He had known Jacques since they were both soldiers, when the only thing they were fighting was the endless boredom and sand of the first Gulf War. Even then, Jacques had a reputation. Need drugs? American beer? Local souvenirs? A girl to keep you company? A guy? Talk to the Foreign Legion guy from the Sixth. Jacques was a legend for the things he could secure in the middle of the desert in a Muslim country. It was no surprise to Eliot that Jacques had channeled his talents into a life of crime.

(Eliot sometimes wondered if Jacques was surprised to see him end up in the criminal world, but he could never bring himself to ask.)

Jacques became a fence for expensive, rare things, and he wasn't above selling information for the right price, to the police . . . or insurance investigators. It was a dangerous line to walk - selling information on stolen goods at the same time you were selling stolen goods - but that was Jacques.

With his profits, Jacques had built his own little empire of vacation homes in Quebec: tidy little fishing cabins, sprawling chalet-style McMansions near the slopes of ski resorts. Whenever Eliot needed to unwind, he could always count on Jacques to give him a deal.

He was ridiculously fond of Jacques. He especially liked that Jacques was a criminal who nurtured other pursuits.

(After all, who better to appreciate a real estate investor/fence/movie enthusiast than a retrieval specialist/outdoorsman/foodie?)

After Eliot spent a week in a cabin scrubbing the image of all things reptilian from his brain, Jacques invited him to Montreal, and it was there - over many beers and shots - that Jacques dropped a little bomb on him.

The Insurance Terminator was after him.

For a job.

Eliot almost choked on his beer. "Nathan Ford? Nathan Ford of IYS Insurance?"

Jacques smiled, showing off a gold cap on one of his incisors.

"What does IYS want with a guy like me?" Eliot asked.

Jacques shrugged and spoke in his accented English. "You are getting the job done."

"Not exactly their kind of jobs, though."

"It's a retrieval, no? Retrieval for IYS, retrieval for-" he waved his hand vaguely - "_other people_. What's the difference?"

Eliot stared at him, eyes hard and flinty. _"You know."_

Jacques waved his hand again, even more dramatically this time. Then he blew boozy mouthful of air. "Pffft!"

"Easy for you to say."

Jacques laughed a that, a big, shoulder-shaking Santa Claus laugh, and Eliot couldn't help but chuckle, too, more at Jacques than his own joke.

Then Jacques raised his shot glass and took a little sip and said thoughtfully, "You should be thinking about it. This job would be good for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

_"You know."_

Eliot scowled at him.

"Just be thinking about it. But not too long. Ford is calling tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Jesus, Jacques. Thanks for not springing it on me last minute!"

"You know me. Always punctuation." Jacques smiled. Then he slammed his palm on the table and stood up. "Alright! I am going to take a leak."

"Punctual!" Eliot called after him, but Jacques just mumbled something unintelligible - and likely profane - and kept going.

Eliot watched him go, half-amused. Half something else entirely.

It had been 18 months since he'd walked out of Damien Moreau's villa in San Lorenzo with Chapman on his heels, barking at him.

_Going on a little vacation, huh? That's alright. You'll be back._

_You're just like everybody else here, Eliot._

_And everybody comes back._

_Everybody._

He had one rule for himself when he left: no more killing.

But what difference had it made?

Sometimes it felt like he had jumped from one crumbling precipice only to land on another. Any one of clients might be as bad as Moreau, might be worse, and the trip to Japan was a painful reminder that he was right there with them. The violence, the mayhem, they had become part of him, like muscle memory.

And Chapman still called him once a month, no matter where he was, no matter how many times he changed his number.

_How's that vacation going? You gone far enough away yet?_

Once, after six months of hanging up on him, Eliot got fed up and took the bait. Asked him what the hell he was talking about.

_You'll see._

And he had. He knew now what Chapman was getting at. He knew now what the real question was.

_Have you gone far enough away to know that you can never get away?_

He stared at his beer glass.

_Had he?_

He could hear Jacques approaching the table again, could pick up his lazy, loping, drunken shuffle even beneath the Credence Clearwater Revival on the sound system and the white noise of the people around them talking and laughing.

This job would be good for you.

He laughed to himself as he tried to imagine it: Eliot Spencer, working for a guy who paid his taxes and lived in the suburbs. It was ridiculous. He had gone too far and done too much to go back to legit work of any kind. There was no way it hell it could possibly work. Not in a million years.

* * *

The next day, he told Jacques he'd do it.

He gave him the number to one of his disposable phones and the address to one of his rented mailboxes.

Two days after that, he got a fed ex envelope and a voice mail. In the envelope, there was a plane ticket to Los Angeles, with the name and address of a hotel on a post-it note on top. The voice mail was equally to-the-point. No greeting, no name, just a single sentence in a voice that was soft, if a little brisk:_ I'll call you when you get there._

That was how he ended up at a taco stand in Reseda. And before that, how he ended up in a bookstore in Burbank, waiting on Ford to call.


	3. Chapter 2

_October 2004_  
_Los Angeles County, California_

The hotel Ford put him up in was an old-school motor lodge, a single floor, L-shaped, with a pool and palm trees and replicas of the Easter Island stone heads on either side of the front doors. The tiki bar in the lobby was popular with local hipsters and tourist hipsters alike, and when Eliot checked in, _Werewolves of London_ was streaming out of the speakers.

There was was a note waiting for him, advising him to _Enjoy. I'll be in touch._

He looked over at the bar, decorated with straw thatch and bamboo and multi-colored string lights. It was early, and the only people there were a group of young guys sitting at a table in their Clark Kent glasses and skinny jeans and ironic t-shirts. They were drinking umbrella drinks in glasses that looked like Hawaiian girls in hula skirts.

Eliot pondered whether he might enjoy in that company for exactly three seconds. Then he crumbled the note and tossed it into the wastebasket and headed for his room.

* * *

The next morning, Eliot scoped out Ford's office and every place nearby, while he waited for Ford to call.

He wanted to be close when the call came. Ford, he knew, would select a neutral meeting place. Someplace public. He wouldn't bring a guy like Eliot Spencer to his office, and he wouldn't risk a private meeting with some muscle he'd never met either.

He'd pick a restaurant or a food court maybe, someplace busy but not too busy, and if Eliot knew that if he was close by, he had a chance of beating Ford there, scoping the place out. At a minimum, he wanted to be there first, at his pick of tables or benches or chairs or whatever - a small way of controlling the environment and exerting a little dominance.

It was all part of the overall goal of the first meeting: scare them, just a little. Just enough. Because Eliot was all for good customer service, but he was also all for making a statement: do not screw me over.

He knew from experience and from seeing other guys get screwed over, you could never really trust a client. They were never above cutting out the retrieval specialist to save money or especially, to save their own ass - no matter what that meant for the retrieval specialist.

He was not about to make an exception for Nathan Ford, no matter how legitimate IYS was.

The US headquarters for IYS Insurance were in Burbank, in a twelve story building in the middle of a stretch of smaller office parks and strip malls, a Goliath in a sea of men. Eliot assumed that on a good day, it had a view of the mountains and downtown L.A., but today, you could barely make out their silhouettes in the smog.

There was a bookstore nearby, and Eliot decided to make that his home base for the day.

He looked at maps and guide books, even though he had committed the interstates and highways and major streets to memory, and when he started to feel entirely overly-prepared, he looked at military history books, and then he browsed the car magazines, and when the call finally came, it was past four and he was sipping iced coffee in the cookbook aisle, looking at the ox-tail soup recipe in _Le Guide Culinaire_ and running through various safe houses in his head, trying to decide which ones might have a good source for gelatinous beef bones nearby.

He had the book open, resting on the top shelf, when the phone in his pocket started to hum.

He flipped it open and tucked it between his shoulder and chin without taking his eyes off the page. "Eliot Spencer."

"Where are you?"

Eliot tensed immediately. The volume of Ford's voice was mild enough - soft as it had been in the voice mail - but his tone made Eliot's lips curl. He had a way of making a question sound like an order.

Eliot should have let it go, he knew. He should have kept his mouth shut and played the dumb thug: _yessir, nosir, whatever you say sir_. He had done it dozens of times before. Hundreds.

Instead, he mouthed off. "What? No hello? No, how ya' doin'?"

Ford didn't respond. Eliot didn't say anything else.

Eliot closed the book and slipped it back into its spot on the shelf and let the silence stretch out between them. They were officially engaged in the auditory version of a staring contest.

He took a sip of his coffee and looked across the tops of the book shelves, staring outside at the heat waves rising off the parked cars. After a good 45 seconds, he gave in.

"I'm at the hotel," he lied smoothly.

"Good. Meet me at Chuy's in Reseda at 6:00."

"Reseda? You got any idea what time it is?"_ And what the hell is a Chuy?_ he wanted to ask.

But there was no answer. Ford had already hung up.

* * *

In the middle of the day, in zero traffic, it took a good thirty minutes to get from Burbank to Reseda. From the hotel Ford had put him up in - if he had actually been there - it would have taken a lot longer. Something Ford would have known. And of course, Ford also would have known that just after 4 p.m. on a weekday, at rush hour, the drive times could easily triple.

Eliot rolled his eyes as he eased the rental into traffic. Was it a test, to see how high he could jump? A power play? A little of both?

Either way, that was officially strike one against Nathan Ford.

As it was, he got lucky with traffic. It was 5:06 when he found the parking lot, and even before he pulled in, he could see the sun glinting off the aluminum shell of a camper-turned-kitchen.

Whoever developed the strip mall had had big aspirations. There was almost a football field worth of macadam from the storefronts to the busy six-lane road. Someone had planned (hoped) to need row after row of neatly painted parking stalls for all the shoppers who would come.

But if the place had ever had a heyday, that was long past. Now, the used book store, the fabric store, the Pier One Imports and the tanning salon weren't exactly pulling in the crowds. The pavement was faded and crisscrossed with long cracks, the lines barely visible. The taco stand looked to be doing the best business of anything there.

When Eliot opened the car door, it was like throwing open an industrial oven. He was blasted with hot air, a stifling wind that took his breath away and whipped around the car, sending his rental car receipt swirling in a mini vortex over the back seat.

He swore. It was October, but it was 105 in the Valley, and it was not your usual heat. Because he knew heat. Knew the heavy, wet heat of jungles and the calm, baking heat of deserts. This - the heat coupled with a scorching wind - was uniquely unpleasant.

Instantly, his skin started to itch and his nostrils went dry, and there was a tickle in the back of his throat, like the heat had formed a tumbleweed in his mouth. He coughed and hmmped, trying to get rid of it, but it stayed lodged there.

As he walked across the parking lot, the pavement was spongy under his feet. He didn't pass many people, but the ones he saw trudged like they were carrying a hundred-pound pack on their backs, and they had dark looks on their faces. Angry angry looks.

Welcome to sunny California.

When he rounded on the camper, he let loose a string of silent curses.

There was no indoor seating. There was no indoor air-conditioned seating, and it was 105 in the Valley.

And that was strike two against Nathan Ford.

There were picnic tables set up in a squared-off section in front of the camper, surrounded on all sides by clusters of palms and rubber trees planted in ten gallon buckets. So you almost had the illusion that you weren't 30 feet from a 6-lane road, inhaling all kinds of carbon with your carnitas.

The owner had set up several fans and misting machines, too, but unless you were right in front of them, they were scant comfort on a day like this, and the sun off the aluminum camper was blinding even through sunglasses.

Eliot was planning to go straight back to his car to sit in the air-conditioning until closer to 6:00, but then he saw that the man at one of the tables, seated under the shade of one of the nearby palms.

His face was hidden behind a newspaper that he'd folded into a neat rectangle, so it wouldn't flap in the hot air and the breeze from the fan behind him. There was a bottle of Sol on the table in front of him, half-finished, a lime wedge floating inside. He was wearing a light grey suit with a tie. And it was 105 in the fucking Valley.

As if on cue, the man put his paper down.

He had dark hair, slicked back, and even though he wore sunglasses, Eliot could tell that he was staring straight at him. He had a smile on his face that was polite but in no way friendly. He motioned for Eliot to sit.

Nathan Ford.

For a brief, confusing moment, Eliot thought maybe he had misread his watch. Was it really just after 5:00? Or had he misheard Ford, and maybe they were really supposed to meet at 5:00 and not 6:00, and he wasn't early at all?

Then it dawned on him.

Ford had left the meeting place a secret until the last minute. Ford thought that Eliot was at the hotel nearly two hours away in rush hour. Ford had gotten there early. In his choice of spots. Controlling the environment. Exerting a little dominance.

He had just done the same thing to Eliot that Eliot had planned to do to him.

_Sonofabitch._

Eliot decided to play innocent. "I thought . . . weren't we meeting at 6:00?"

Ford kept smiling, but it changed into something like half a smirk (and all measuring stick). "Were we? I guess you got lucky then. You would have had a long wait in this heat."

_Sonofafuckingbitch._

Eliot gave him a little laugh to cover his consternation. "Yeah. Guess so."

His shirt was already clinging to the sweat on his back, and the wind was whipping tendrils of hair hair from behind his ears and into his face. He looked over his shoulder at the camper. "I'm gonna get a beer," he grumbled, feeling the distinct need to put some distance between himself and Nathan Ford before he made a complete mess of his first chance at a legitimate client.


	4. Chapter 3

_October 2004  
__Los Angeles County, California_

Nathan Ford did not exactly look like an Insurance Terminator.

He was tall, probably six feet, but he had a slim build, smooth features, a fair complexion. There were no callouses under the newsprint on his fingers, and his nails were clean and trimmed. He wore a wedding ring. Looking at him, the first word in Eliot's head was soft.

And yet he'd beat Eliot at his own game.

And despite the heat, his beer bottle was sweating more than he was.

Once Eliot got settled, Ford pulled an expandable folder from the bench next to him and tossed it on the table between them.

"That's your job."

Eliot's sunglasses were slipping on the sweat and oil on his nose, and he pushed them back up.

Ford did not exactly ooze that laid back SoCal attitude, and there was a faint accent there, one he'd heard over the phone, too: a slight, nasal lengthening of the vowels. He ran through the possibilities - New York, Boston, Philly. It was faint, but definitely Northeast.

He pulled the folder into his lap and opened it, setting the contents on the table: a map of the Guaviare Department of Columbia and a few newspaper and magazine articles, printed off a website. The first four articles were from a baseball magazine, all about Jorge Cabrera, a pitcher for the Dodgers. The articles laid out his history: highly-touted prospect; bad attitude; busted for DUI; busted for possession; busted for drunk and disorderly; altercations with coaches and teammates; altercations with umpires; altercations with fans; traded; traded; traded; released; picked up; traded.

The last article was from an in-flight magazine, a lifestyle piece about Cabrera's mansion in L.A. and his villa in Columbia. This was not from a printer but the actual glossy pages torn from the magazine. There was a photo of Cabrera standing in front of a white marble fireplace in a room with white marble floors and pale grey walls. There were a few small statues on the mantle, and one of them was circled in red ink. Right next to it, someone had stuck a post-it note onto the page, with a message, also written in red: _I hear Colombia's nice this time of year!_

Eliot raised an eyebrow and looked more closely at the statue.

It was carved out of dark wood, about eight inches tall. It was a crocodile, standing upright on its back legs, front legs crossed across its chest. The snout was angled downward, so it could stare out all onlookers, and its tail was curving around the its feet. It looked like some ancient child's toy, a primitive action figure, except there was something unsettling about it. Not quite sinister, but not exactly kind and benevolent either.

Eliot pulled his eyes away from it and let the page slide from his fingertips onto the table.

"So, I'm retrieving a crocodile?"

"No, I'm retrieving that."

"Then what am I retrieving?"

Ford folded his sunglasses and placed them on the table, on top of his newspaper. "Me."

"You?" Eliot raised his eyebrows.

"Maybe," Ford shrugged. "You may not have to do anything. You're uh, you know . . . just in case."

Eliot took a sip of his beer. Ford had a way of drawing things out that he found irritating. Among the rapidly growing list of things about Ford that he found irritating. "In case of what?"

"What do you know about Jorge Cabrera?"

"Other than what I just read? I know he seems like a real pain in the ass, but he can throw 98 miles an hour, and as long as he can do that, he's gonna get paid."

Ford nodded, and Eliot thought he saw an appreciative smile at the edges of his mouth. "That's exactly right. The guy's made close to $30 million. But you know what he's worth?" Ford held up one hand, bringing his thumb and forefinger together into an 'O.' "Zero. He's in debt. Big time. For every dollar he makes, he spends five.

"So as you can imagine, it raised some eyebrows when his L.A. house burned down a few months ago, with his Lamborghini and his Hummer in the garage."

"Arson."

"That's the idea, but we couldn't prove it. And IYS has some of the best arson investigators you'll ever meet. They're convinced it was a job, they just can't put together enough evidence to make a case stick.

"So we paid up. Paid for the cars, paid for the house and paid for all the contents. We even paid over a million dollars for that," he said, pointing at the crocodile statue in the magazine photo.

"That?!"

Ford shrugged again. "It's an artifact. Pre-Columbian. Very significant piece, apparently. But here's the thing. We paid out on his claim in August. This photo," he tapped the crocodile on the page, "was taken at Jorge's villa in Colombia in _September_."

Eliot nodded. It was classic insurance fraud. The croc wasn't in the L.A. house when it burned down. It was safe in Columbia, and Jorge had simply added it to a list of lost items he'd submitted to IYS, thinking _who'd be the wiser_. Too bad he wasn't bright enough not to get caught with the evidence.

"Now," Ford went on, "Jorge's insurance policy has what we call a Claiming Clause. If we pay him for something and that something mysteriously turns up, he's got to either repay us or give us the something. And Jorge does not exactly have over a million dollars in cash lying around."

"So you're going to Colombia to get the crocodile, and you're afraid Jorge's gonna take batting practice on your head?"

Ford chuckled. "Well, not so much Jorge, but his Villa's near Miraflores. You know it, I assume?"

Eliot snorted. "Oh yeah. I know it."

Eliot pulled the map from the stack of papers and looked at it more closely. Miraflores was in the southeastern part of the Guaviare Department, and it was notorious. Mercenaries and drug cartels had completely taken over the city in 2003, and it had taken almost a year for the military to gain some tenuous control back. And they still didn't have any control of the jungles around the city.

Eliot shook his head. "How does a guy like Jorge live in a place like that?"

"He's connected.," Ford said. "Grew up with cartel guys. They like his connections. He likes their connections."

"He brings them customers, they give him drugs and protection."

Ford nodded. "That's right."

"And you can't trust the local authorities to back you up, because they're in the cartel's back pocket?"

"Exactly."

Eliot took a sip of his beer and noted the change in Ford's posture over the last few minutes - the lazy disinterest was gone; he was sitting straight up, attentive, engaged.

The man seemed to know what he was doing, which put him in above a good 60% of Eliot's normal clientele, and he also seemed to have a genuine passion for his work, which put him above a good 99% of the normal clientele.

Behind Eliot, there was a sudden burst of shouting, and he cringed; it seemed abnormally loud, like it was coming through a megaphone. He looked over his shoulder, where a customer was yelling at the cook for running out of tongue and agua fresca.

He shook his head and turned back to Ford.

"No offense," he said, a sideways smile on his face as he tilted his beer bottle back up, "but people in LA are crazy."

He was letting his guard down, he knew, but Ford seemed to respond in kind, smiling a genuine, amused smile.

"The people are definitely crazy," Ford said, "but that is not your usual California crazy. That's the wind."

"The what?"

"The Santa Ana winds. They're, uh, kind of a thing around here. They come down from the Mojave Desert and whip everybody into a frenzy."

"That happen all the time?"

Ford watched the two men cursing at each other in Spanish. "Every year. Raymond Chandler said that when the Santa Anas blow, every booze party ends in a fight and meek housewives stare at their husbands' throats with kitchen knives in their hands."

"Quaint."

Ford laughed. "Yeah."

Eliot watched him watch the ruckus, and he was still smiling that genuine, knowing smile, and Eliot took it as a win that the Insurance Terminator seemed to have loosened up with him. They seemed to be hitting it off now. This might just be a very good job.

Ford titled his beer bottle up, finishing it off, the lime wedge sticking at the neck and the beer foaming all around it. Eliot took a sip of his own and was surprised to find himself starting to like Nathan Ford.

Ford put his empty beer bottle on the table. "So how's the motor inn?"

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's a real four star establishment there. Many thanks."

"Gets pretty fun after dark, I hear."

"Yeah? Well, I guess we'll see."

"There is one more thing," Ford said.

"What's that?"

"I've got a return flight for us the day after we arrive. We get in, we get the the statue the next morning, and we're out of Miraflores before the sun sets. _But_. Just in case we're . . . delayed . . . we must be back here by the 27th. And I mean absolutely. Under no circumstances can this take more than seven days."

A tiny alarm bell went off in Eliot's head. "And why is that?"

Ford cocked his head a little. He was clearly put off at being questioned. "What difference does it make?"

Eliot forced a smile and tried hard to keep his tone neutral. "I just don't like artificial deadlines, man, that's all."

"Hm," Ford nodded, and he smiled, too, but it was not his genuine smile. This was the humorless, measuring stick smile from earlier, and it skimmed across his lips and disappeared in a second. "You don't have to like it. You just have to do it. And if you can't, I've got a half dozen guys in line who can. No questions asked."

And just like that, the good feeling was gone.

Any good will that was starting to build towards Ford evaporated, like the fine spray from Chuy's misting machine, swallowed up in the sweltering air.

"I can get it done," Eliot said quickly, and he kept smiling, but it seemed to pull at that dry, thick feeling in the back of his throat, that tumbleweed that might of been from the Santa Anas or maybe it was just the pride he was swallowing.

* * *

Eliot watched Ford go, the tumbleweed in the back of his throat turning sour. Ford had gotten the better of him in this meeting, something he was not accustomed to. He couldn't remember a time when a client had really one-upped him. In fact, the only person since the military who had ever made him feel this full of anger and self-reproach was . . . _well_.

And the second that realization hit, he was on his feet and huffing across the parking lot to his car.

He was not about to let that feeling pass. He was not about to sit back and let anyone have that position of power over him, especially not someone he worked for.

Ford drove a silver Acura, exactly what Eliot would have expected from some mid-level suit who lived in Sherman Oaks. Eliot trailed him down 101 to Victory Boulevard and then across Ventura and Valley Vista, where the houses - moderns and contemporaries and Spanish Colonials - were all set on big lots in the canyon, tucked away among the maples and box elders. Ford pulled into the driveway of one the smaller homes (which in that area was not saying much) - a traditional with impeccable landscaping in the front yard.

Eliot kept driving, until he found a vacant house on the same side of the street with a For Sale sign in the yard. He eased his rental into the driveway and walked around out front a little, like a prospective buyer, his hand cupped against the window as he peered in. He moved quickly around back, looking around like he was getting a feel for the place.

The houses on Ford's street all backed up against a hillside, and most of them had trees or privacy fences separating them from their neighbors. It was easy enough for Eliot to slide along the back end of their lots and make his way, undetected, to Ford's house. He could hear the splashing from two houses away.

He squeezed himself between an elderberry bush and the back of Ford's wooden fence, where he could see through a knotty gash in one of the boards.

The air smelled like sunscreen and chlorine; sharp and clean after the smog of the freeway.

Ford sat on the edge of the pool, by the shallow-end steps, his pants rolled up around the knees. He had his feet in the pool, and there was a leggy blonde in a deck chair next to him. Gone were the jacket and button-down, leaving just his white t-shirt, untucked. The blonde wore a white sundress, gleaming bright against her tanned skin, and if Eliot didn't hate Nathan Ford before, he certainly hated him now.

Ford was leaning back on his palms, his vodka tonic or gin and tonic on the patio by his hand, his head tilted just against her knee, and she sipped wine while she played with his hair, long elegant fingers pulling loose curls away from his scalp.

"Hey! Hey Daddy, watch me!"

There was a boy there, a tiny, wiry little thing. He stood on the diving board in his swim trunks, dripping wet, eyes hidden behind dark tinted goggles.

"I'm watching," Ford yelled back, he had his wife smiling. "What do you got?"

The board vibrated, the noisy, creaky-fiberglass sound echoing off the water before the kid vaulted off the end, doing his best attempt at a cannonball, skinny arms around his legs when he disappeared beneath the glittering blue with a less-than-impressive splash. Ford kept his eyes on the pool, ever vigilant, but covered a chuckle with his hand when Sam came up paddling, arms thrashing furiously, whole body wiggling with the effort of staying above the water, an ear to ear grin on his face.

"Did I getcha?" He asked, gulping pool water and spitting it back out in an undignified spray.

"You're going to have to try harder!" Ford called back, his kid's grin mirrored on his face. The boy shook water from his hair like a puppy before paddling back towards the diving board.

Eliot leaned his forearm against the fence, still peering through the gap in the boards.

He'd never really liked the water, not even as a kid. Any time he got dragged to the Y or the local pool or even the deep stream behind his grandpop's farm, he spent the time wading in the shallow end, watching his sisters and cousins; or stomping around in the shallows chasing frogs and crayfish.

As an adult…well. He'd seen too many ways a pool could be used for an _accident_ to really enjoy going for a swim.

This was a fairly decent sized pool, too – professional, in-ground, lined. The deep-end was probably a good nine feet deeper than the kid was tall, but he kept launching himself into the deep water without flinching, without looking back. He had all the fearlessness of a four year old, one who hadn't figured out just how breakable life could be…

And that was where he caught himself, felt the slight tinge of fondness, and shut it down, fast. This wasn't just a family. This was…this was leverage. This was something he could hold against Ford the second- the millisecond- it looked like the insurance man was going to turn on him. The happy laughing family in the pool could just as easily become a Sword of Damocles, hanging over Nate's head.

"Friendly kids are the best." Chapman had told him that, not too long after he started with Moreau. "I mean, sure, mommies and daddies try to teach them not to talk to strangers, but…" the big man shrugged in Eliot's memory. "You get a friendly kid who just wants to say hi, sooner or later they'll come right to you…"

It had made sense at the time. It had _worked_, at the time.

Now, the mere thought made Eliot's blood run cold, as did the realization: _that's exactly what you're doing, isn't it_?

A splash louder than the kid could have made alone drew his attention back to the pool. Ford had fallen in, suit-pants and all, and surfaced under Sam. The boy sat perched on his father's shoulders now, hands full of sodden hair, giggling like a hyena.

"Nate!" His wife scolded, but Eliot could hear the laughter under her words. "Nate, you just had those cleaned..."

Nate sank under the water, blowing bubbles when he tried to talk back. It sent the boy into a fit of giggles - high-pitched, loud, almost squeals - and Eliot suddenly realized he was clenching his teeth.

Then Ford snaked his hand up the boy's side and squeezed, a sneak tickle attack, and the boy really did squeal, and it sounded just like another boy, except it didn't, because that boy had been screaming, and before Eliot even realized what he was doing, he was stumbling away from the fence, running full tilt back to the house with the For Sale sign, back to his rental car, as far away from the sounds of that child as he could get.

His t-shirt was clinging to his back again, his hair thick and heavy against the nape of his neck. He jumped into the car in such a rush that he cracked his knee on the steering wheel.

He let loose a string of curses and slammed the door. Then he turned up the a/c full tilt, cranked the radio and whipped the car back out of the driveway, barely looking behind him as he did. He gunned the engine as much as he could back to the hotel, weaving in and out of traffic with the air vents angled at his face and chest, the sweat drying sticky on his skin.

All the way back to the hotel, he thought about the things that had pissed him off about Ford: the arrogance, the patronizing smugness, the tough attitude when what the hell did he know about being tough? Or having it tough?

And he told himself this: legitimate or not, family or not, it didn't matter. When it came to business, Nathan Ford was no different from a hundred shady businessmen and criminals he had worked with over the years.

Exactly the same.

Eliot said it to himself over and over, driving it into his brain so he would not forget it. Nathan Ford might spend his evenings by the pool with his family, but at the end of the day, he'd probably sell them out, too, to save his own hide. He could not be trusted, and he would not be trusted, only tolerated for what he could offer.

Eliot would make no mistake about that.

And God help Nathan Ford if he tried to cross him.


	5. Chapter 4

_October 2004_  
_Los Angeles County California to Miraflores, Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_Day 1_

"Do you want to change?"

He was in the international terminal at LAX, checking in. His army-issue duffle was slung over one shoulder, hair pulled into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck, and the woman behind the counter was smiling up at him, cute as a button in her navy uniform.

She was waiting for his answer, all blonde hair and tanned skin and pink lip gloss. Her name badge read TIFFANY, and it had wings on either side of it, like it was ready to fly right off of her vest. She looked young, young enough that this was probably her first job out of college, and Eliot couldn't help but smile back at her - she was awfully cute - but she had no idea what kind a loaded question she had just asked him.

_Do you want to change?_

Any number of responses went through his head.

Like: _you mean the anger issues?_

Or: _ that monkey job was probably a mistake._

And of course: _it'd be nice not to have killed all those people. Can we change that?_

He just smiled, though.

"I have some openings in Business Class," she said. "I could upgrade you. Free of charge." Then she bit her bottom lip, and held it there, suggestively.

Eliot raised his eyebrows.

She had his ticket clutched in her hand, and he looked down at it. The ticket Ford had given him was for coach. And why did he think that Nathan Ford was not flying coach from LA to Bogota?

And why did that piss him off so much?

The strap on his bag was slipping down his shoulder, and he pulled it back up again, the frayed edges catching on calloused fingertips. He crossed his forearms on the counter and leaned in, so that his face was closer to hers, and he could see the light freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"You know what, Tiffany?" He said, turning on his warmest smile. "I would love an upgrade."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Eliot was boarding the flight with a business class ticket and Tiffany's phone number.

Ford was in the last row in business class, in an aisle seat. Wearing a suit again (navy, no tie), hair slicked back again, and how Jacques had not made a Gordon Gekko comparison in his movie villain rant, Eliot had no idea.

His legs were stretched out in front of him, and he was leafing through a file, the picture of casual confidence.

As Eliot got closer, he saw that Ford had a stack of files on his open tray table, right next to his cup of coffee. A slant of bright morning sun stretched across the empty seat next to him and fell across his face and hands, turning them a ghostly pale.

_Workaholic_, he thought. Soft, arrogant workaholic.

Eliot stopped right beside him and stood there hovering. Ford was so focused on what he was reading that he didn't sense Eliot's presence right away, and when he did, his concentration was intense enough that he had to forcibly tear himself away from the open file in front of him.

Eliot smiled at him - a big, happy shit-eating grin.

"That's my seat," he said, pointing.

A line appeared in the space between Ford's eyebrows as he processed that tidbit of information. Eliot could see his wheels turning, could just see him replaying whatever instructions he had given his secretary, wondering to himself if he had really told her to put the help right next to him in the sweet seats.

"I got an upgrade," Eliot said, helpful as could be.

Ford stared at him for a moment, clearly unamused. Then he gathered up his files with a sigh, pressing them against his chest, while he awkwardly lifted his coffee cup and stowed his tray table. Eliot slid past him, smiling all the way.

"I love this airline. That Tiffany at the front counter. Man, what a sweetheart."

"That's great," Ford said dryly, putting his tray down again, re-organizing his things.

"I know, isn't it? We get to sit together."

Eliot nudged his shoulder into Ford's. "Nothing worse than nine hours in Coach, am I right?" he winked, enjoying the hell out of himself.

Giving right back that measuring-stick smile Ford had given him at Chuy's in Reseda.

* * *

After take-off, Eliot put his foot rest up and his headphones on and watched _The Bourne Supremacy_, enjoying the firm lumbar support and attentive beverage service of business class. Ford mostly ignored him, going through files from his soft-sided briefcase.

Most of it was pretty standard - maps, Cabrera's insurance policy, some investigative files from the fire. But there were also several high level reports from security officials in the Guaviare Department, detailing the recent FARC movement around Miraflores and the rumors of high ranking corruption in the military forces controlling the town. Painting a picture of the cartel using the FARC for muscle and the military standing back and allowing it for a price.

How the hell did he get those? Eliot wondered, peeking over.

Ford had better connections than Eliot would have thought, but the bigger question was: Why the hell isn't he giving them to me?

Not that he needed them; everything he saw there was old news. He had called on all his South American connections as soon as he learned the specifics of the job.

(Everyone's view of Miraflores had been the same: unstable, dangerous, isolated, dangerous, corrupt, dangerous.)

But it rankled him that Ford was holding something back.

"Hey," Eliot nudged him.

"Hmm?" Ford said, without looking up from his work.

"Whaddaya got there?"

"A, uh . . a little intel on our destination."

"A little intel?"

Ford still didn't look up. "Yeah."

"Were you planning to share that with me? You know, the guy who's getting your ass out of there?"

Nate stared straight ahead at the documents for a good few seconds. Then he leaned over, like he was getting ready to share a very important secret.

"Well, you're so good at finding taco stands and getting upgrades, I didn't think you needed the help."

Then he smiled.

And who had the measuring stick now?

* * *

From Bogota, they caught a private charter, earning curious looks from the airline personnel. Americans were not exactly frequent visitors to Miraflores. The military hold was still too shaky for tourists and most businessmen. The Americans that did show up were usually consultants hired by the Colombian government, and they took military transports with armed guards, not private planes.

Their charter was a small, single-propeller number. No reclining seats, no beverage service and no in-flight movie. Eliot and Nate sat across the aisle from each other.

On takeoff, the plane flew into clouds almost immediately. Eliot watched Bogota disappear behind a curtain of white, and when the plane emerged, the landscape had gone from the silver-grey squares of a developed city to a wide expanse of jungle green, broken only by rivers and mountains and the occasional patch of brown that signaled some small, secluded town.

Miraflores was one of them. From the air, the most striking thing about it was the airstrip, a red-dirt swath painted right down the middle, longer than the town itself and almost as wide. The Vaupes river ran along the southwestern side of the town, and the space between the river and the airstrip was packed tight with shanties. Even from above, Eliot could tell they were nothing more than loose wooden frames covered in metal panels. They had a distinctive slant to them and a distinctive patchwork quilt of colors - the greys and blues and reddish browns of tin in various stages of rust.

There were people and animals in and around the river, in and around the shanties, and Eliot could just make out what had to be kids swimming around the long, hand-carved canoes bunched up near the shore.

On the northeastern side of the airstrip, there looked to be a commercial area, a small grid of buildings, and then a compound surrounded by barbed wire fence - the local military headquarters, no doubt.

Beyond that, there was nothing but jungle green as far as the eye could see, broken up only by the curving Vaupes.

Eliot took note.

There would be no way to blend in or hide in a village with a couple thousand South Americans. No paved roads and no motorized boats on the river, and you could bet that the dirt roads disappearing into the jungle were unmapped and unreliable. If things went to hell, it was going to be no easy feat getting them out of there.

He turned away from the window, and caught Ford turning away from his own, and Eliot saw in his eyes that he was thinking the same thing.

The second Ford saw Eliot looking at him, though, he schooled his features into a casual nonchalance and cocked an eyebrow. "Seven days."

* * *

The landing was something like shaking jelly beans in a tin can.

The airstrip was covered in ruts and potholes, and as soon as the plane's wheels touched down, the whole thing started shaking so violently that it felt like it would pull apart at its welded seams. Eliot gripped the seat back in front of him and clenched his teeth, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ford pressing himself back into his seat, clutching the arm rests, face tense.

Which would have been pretty funny if it didn't feel like every vertebrae in his neck was rattling out of alignment.

Eliot could see through the front window of the plane, as the trees beyond the airstrip got closer and closer, and for several long seconds, he was absolutely certain they were going to crash straight into them, but the pilot hit the brakes at what seemed like the last possible moment, and he and Ford were thrust forward in their seats as the plane lurched to a stop.

Eliot heard Ford take a deep breath as the plane turned at the end of the airstrip and taxied - slowly now - back to the middle of the dirt path, the bumps a lot more tolerable when they were easing over them.

When the pilot opened door and dropped the stairwell out the side of the plane, Ford grumbled, "Is this the part where we kiss the ground and thank our maker?"

Eliot could have laughed - he he felt exactly the same way - but he was done letting himself have any good feelings when it came to Nathan Ford.

* * *

Ford de-planed first, carry-on in one hand, briefcase slung over his shoulder. It was humid enough that the red dirt on the airstrip barely kicked up dust when Ford's wingtips hit it. Eliot stepped down behind him, and the pilot wasted no time pulling the stairway back up.

Eliot couldn't stop himself from turning back when he heard that *_click_* of the door lock. That was it. The pilot had been adamant that he would not stay overnight in Miraflores. For better or worse, they were stuck there, and they weren't flying out until the next day.

If everything went exactly according to plan.

Eliot pulled his duffle bag over his shoulder. "I hope you got us a vehicle."

"I know a guy who knows a guy," Ford said, raising his voice as the plane engine started up. He pointed to a spot at the end of the airstrip. "There."

Eliot moved for a clearer view and was almost sorry he did. Just off the side of the runway, there was a beat-up jeep in a ridiculous and completely un-masculine pale yellow, with a cracked headlight and a big patch of rust along the hood.

There was also a much newer looking military jeep parked next to it. Along with six armed soldiers.

The men had spread across both jeeps, reclining in the seats or leaning on the bumpers, smoking cigarettes and chatting. They seemed completely unaware that a plane had just landed in front of them and deposited two men on the runway.

"And look at that," Ford said. "We even get a welcoming committee."

"You think that's funny?" Eliot growled as the plane started taxiing down the airstrip away from them. Eliot dropped his bag in the dirt.

He hadn't planned to engage anyone this early. So much for that idea. He started forward, but Ford's hand on his forearm stopped him.

"I got this," he said casually.

Like_ Take a seat, you're good. No worries here._

Eliot was incredulous. "You got this?"

"Yeah."

"You?"

"Yep."

Nate picked up his briefcase and slung his carry-on over his shoulder and started down the runway, brisk and confident.

As he got closer to the soldiers, he held up a hand, waving it over his head in an exaggerated hello. The soldiers watched him, but they stayed frozen in their laconic poses, like models in a magazine -_ Hot New Looks - Military Chic!_ - until one of them slid out from the driver's side of the green jeep and made his way out toward Ford.

Eliot put his hands on his hips and shook his head. He wondered what the chances were that he was going to make it through the next ten minutes without having to take out a jeep load of Colombian soldiers. Then he grabbed his bag and started down the runway.

The plane had turned at the far end of the airstrip, and was barreling back down it now, jumping erratically over the uneven ground as it made it's way towards the end. It zoomed past them and lifted off, just as Eliot caught up to Nate. The lead soldier casually watched it go as he walked.

Nate didn't waste a glance at it. He held his hand out to the approaching soldier, offering a shake, and he spoke to the man in Spanish, his voice loud over the waning sound of the airplane's engine. "Ola, buenas tardes! Buenas tardes! Me llamo Henry K. Gillis."

The officer ignored Ford's outstretched hand. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his chest pocket and shook a butt up, taking it between his lips. He lit it and took a long drag and tilted his head back as he blew smoke from his nose and mouth. He was thin and bony. Doberman-like. With a long nose and eyes that were narrow in a way that made him look sleepy. (Eliot, however, could tell that he was quite alert.)

His name tag read '_Gutierrez_.' He was the commanding officer, and he was clearly unimpressed.

Ford was unflappable, though. He lowered his hand like he hadn't been rebuffed and started talking a mile a minute in Spanish, gesturing broadly and going on about how he was Henry K. Gillis from Los Angeles, and he was a sports agent, and he and his assistant - he waved at Eliot - were there to see Jorge Cabrera, and this and that and yadda yadda yadda. Eliot stood just behind him, and when Nate pointed at him, Eliot gave a friendly smile, playing along.

As Eliot watched the scene unfold, two things struck him. The first was Nate's Spanish. It was was more Barcelona than Bogota. The pronunciation, the word choices: it was what you'd expect from someone who spent his time in Spain, not South America.

The second thing - the one that stuck in Eliot's craw just a little - was that Ford didn't suck. In fact, he was actually pretty good. The fake bluster had the soldiers balanced just right. The C.O.'s posture had shifted a noticeable half a notch towards relaxed, even though he stared coldly at them. He obviously didn't feel threatened; he was annoyed but half-amused and just distracted enough that he didn't seem to question Ford's story too closely.

As Ford wound down his spiel, he clapped his hands together. "So, ah, if you'll just have your men clear off our jeep there, we'll be going."

The officer just stared, and Eliot started mapping a route through the soldiers in his head, who he would take down first, which ones would be second, third, but the moment lasted barely a half-second before Nate was talking again. "Of course, we do, uh, appreciate you guarding it for us, and I really must insist that you let me compensate you and your men for your time."

Nate pulled his wallet from his back pocket and raised his eyebrows at the officer, waiting for a response.

Then the man smiled, a long thin grin that split his narrow face almost in two.

"Well, Senor Gillis. If you insist."

* * *

"That worked out well," Ford said, thumbing through the remaining bills in his wallet as the soldiers drove off, all six of them squeezed into the army jeep like a keystone cops routine in a circus.

He was grinning like a kid on his birthday.

"You overpaid," Eliot grumbled. It pissed him off that Ford was so pleased with himself, but if he was honest with himself, it galled him just a little that Ford had gotten rid of the soldiers on his own, too. He knew Ford had a good reputation, but he had pegged him as a useless suit in his mind, and now Ford was threatening that designation. And Eliot didn't like it.

"Pays not to skimp on the local law enforcement," Ford said.

"Well if all your intel is correct, you could pay 'em a million bucks and it wouldn't matter, would it?"

Eliot was primed to argue, but Ford only smiled mildly down at his wallet as he finished counting.

Then he put his wallet away and picked up his bags. "Let's go see our accommodations, shall we?"


	6. Chapter 5

_October 2004_  
_Miraflores, Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_Day 1_

The Hotel la Colonial was in the commercial center of Miraflores, along with the mayor's office, a few restaurants, a government building, a clinic, a market and a brothel. The streets were paved with concrete and just wide enough for Ford to ease the jeep through without running over any pedestrians, dogs or chickens.

Like most of the bigger buildings in town, the hotel had cinderblock walls and a corrugated metal roof, but it had the dubious distinction of being painted an unfortunate Pepto Bismol shade of pink. The rooms were on the second floor, accessed only by rickety-looking stairs that started in the alley and ran up the side of the building to the second story walkway. An open-air restaurant occupied the first floor.

Ford backed the jeep into the alley, just under the stairway, and the yellow jeep next to the pink building made Eliot think of children's rubber bracelets, stretched to fit around Chapman's wrist - trophies from a job that Chapman wore proudly for an entire summer.

"Hey! You ready?" Ford barked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Eliot glared. Then he pulled his bag from the back of the jeep and refocused himself, ignoring the regret that burned in the back of his throat. "I'm ready."

They walked around the front of the hotel into a theater of illegal activity. On the nearest corner, less than twenty feet from two armed soldiers, a drug deal was going down. Two other soldiers were talking to a handful of prostitutes on another corner, conducting what clearly was not any law enforcement or military-related business of any kind.

It was getting dark, and there were no streetlights in Miraflores, just the lights on the buildings themselves, or inside them. People moved in and out of shadow - fishermen, farmers, workers from coca fields and logging operations, prostitutes, military, FARC.

The owner of the Hotel La Colonial was a short, middle-aged woman named Florencia. When Nate introduced himself, she grabbed his outstretched hand in both of her own, giving him a warm, vigorous shake. And when she found out that they had been traveling all day, she insisted they put their bags down right there and have a meal.

She sat them near the street, where they could see everything. Then she brought them big platters of beans and rice with plantains and avocado and ground chorizo swimming in a bright orange puddle of its own grease. The drinks - pineapple juice and a lemon-lime soda spiked with sugarcane alcohol - packed a wallop.

Ford ate and drank with gusto, making quick work of his first drink and gratefully accepting a second, while Eliot paced himself, avoiding the meat, sipping lightly on his drink.

There were no obvious threats at this point, but sitting out in the open in a small town filled with criminals and crooked military men made him feel vulnerable. He scanned the street, scanned the shadows, scrutinized every person and animal that went past.

Before long, two young boys darted from a side street and in front of the hotel, kicking a well-worn soccer ball between. They were barefoot and shirtless, wearing baggy shorts and carrying on a lively bit of joking and name-calling as they played.

They couldn't have been more than seven or eight.

They had no idea what this world had in store for them, and Eliot dwelled on that as he watched them. Surrounded as they were by the river and the jungle and the FARC and the drugs.

They were stuck, and they didn't even know it.

One of the boys ran ahead for a pass, but the ball went wide and caromed right off the backside of a chicken. The thing squawked indignantly and skittered off into an alley in a huff of clucking and loose feathers and flapping wings.

The boys laughed like they had never seen anything so funny, and Eliot smiled, too, until he saw the drug dealer walking over to the ball. It had come to rest a few feet from him, and he kicked it back to them with a friendly little jerk of the chin. Like he was just some nice guy walking down the street, giving a little help. He called one of the boys by name and told him, jokingly, that he needed to work on his touch.

Eliot took a deep, seething breath and realized that his shoulders were tight, his fists clenched on either side of his plate. And Ford was staring at him.

Eliot picked up his fork. "What?"

Ford looked to the street, but the boys were gone; they had disappeared into the darkness. The only thing left of them was the sound of their voices, drifting farther and farther away.

"You have kids?" Ford asked.

Eliot almost choked on his plaintains. "Kids?" he barked. "_Kids!_? What kind of question is that?"

Nate shrugged, palms up in apology. "Just a question." He picked up his fork and cut a bite-sized piece from a hunk of avocado on his plate. "I don't know. You seem to, uh, you know . . . you seemed kind of fond of them, that's all."

Eliot glared at him. He he wasn't sure what was more infuriating - Ford being an asshole or Ford being . . . was that nice?

Eliot put his forearms back on the table, on either side of his plate. "Let me ask you a question."

"What's that?"

"Do you have kids?"

Ford's blue eyes turned to ice at that question. "My personal life is none of your fucking business."

The second he said it, though, his expression changed, realization dawning on him. Eliot had just turned the tables.

Then that look of realization changed, too, into a mix of irritation and self-reproach and a rueful amusement and . . . Eliot thought he must be seeing things, because he could have sworn there was the slightest bit of respect there, too.

He didn't dwell on it though. He was probably just seeing things. Instead, he went for a last little dig.

"Hey," he said, raising his hands in a parody of Nate's apologetic gesture just minutes earlier. "Just a question, right?"

* * *

When they finally convinced Florencia that they could not possibly eat or drink anything else, she pulled out a handful of keys and offered them their choice. They were her only guests for the night.

They headed up in the pitch black of the alley, the stairs creaking and shifting under their feet just enough that they both picked up their pace automatically, without a word to each other. Eliot dropped his bag on the balcony outside his door and pointed at the walkway at Ford's feet.

"Stay put," he said.

Ford raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms, but he said nothing, and Eliot lingered, suspicious at this sudden mute complicity.

"What?" Nate asked.

"What are you doing?"

"Staying put?"

Eliot gave him a scowl and turned to walk the second floor perimeter.

There were four rooms along the front of the building and four rooms along the back, and the walkway on both sides was lit by a single, dangling bulb. It was a new moon, and there were no stars visible either. The back of the building butted up against the river, but in the darkness and with only the scattered lights from the town, Eliot could make out only a small sliver of murky brown water close to the shore.

The rest of the river - and the jungle beyond - was unseeable. The sounds was there, though, loud and relentless: bats chirping, insects sawing, frogs warbling, monkeys grunting and, occasionally, screaming.

A breeze stirred up, coming in off the river. Eliot curled his fingers around the walkway rail and turned his face to it. He closed his eyes and let it dry the sweat on his skin until a noise from the river jerked him back to his senses. It was a plunk and then seconds later, a frantic thrashing, and Eliot could just imagine something going for a swim - intentional or not - and running right into a crocodile.

For a second, it seemed as though every jungle noise went silent, like every living thing there was watching whatever drama was going on in the river that Eliot couldn't see. Then, the sound of the water settled down, and the sounds of the jungle rose up again.

He stared into the darkness, straining his eyes, clutching the rail tightly, trying fiercely to see - the river where the drama had occurred, the jungle, anything - but the blackness was like a wall. Or worse, like a two-way mirror.

Like he wasn't looking into the jungle. Like it was looking into him.

It was nerve-wracking, and it gave him a bad feeling. Like there was something out there waiting on him. Preying on him.

Then he shook his head and rubbed his fingers over his eyes.

_You're losing it, man. Pull yourself together!_

* * *

When he walked back around to the front, Ford was leaning over the balcony, slipping something back into a sleeve in his wallet. Then he slid the wallet into his back pocket. The whole move was just a little too perfectly casual to actually be casual, and Eliot knew he had caught Ford in the middle of something.

"No one's going to bother us tonight," Nate said without looking at Eliot. "I'm sure the word's gotten around that we're here to steal Jorge from his agent."

"Yeah well, better safe than sorry," Eliot said tersely, still tense from the case of nerves he'd gotten on the backside of the building.

"Hm."

On the street, the two boys emerged from the darkness at the end of the street and ran through again, kicking their soccer ball. One of them dribbled it around a wooden cart someone had left by the side of the street and then passed it to the drug dealer, who easily toed into the air and bounced it off his knee twice before sending it back to the kid. And then the boys were off again, waving at the drug dealer, who waved back at them.

Ford shook his head. "They've got no idea what they're in for in this place."

Eliot was picking up the bags when Ford spoke, and before he even registered what he was doing, he threw them back to the balcony floor and whirled around. "Like you give a shit."

It was unfair, he knew. He thought the same thing himself, after all. But he didn't care. Hearing Ford say it made his back teeth snap together and his lips curl.

Ford was still leaning over the walkway rail, his forearms resting on it, and he casually shifted to the side, so that one elbow was on the rail and his fingers were laced in front of his stomach.

"Excuse me?"

Eliot glared at him and picked up his bag again, silently thankful for the soft strap; if he had one of those rolling bags, the plastic handle would have snapped under the force of his grip. Then he turned away, opening Ford's room door and flipping on the lights, going in to give the place a once-over.

Ford followed him in, bringing in his own bag and his briefcase, and setting them both on the floor by the bed. "Oh I get it," he said. "Only you can feel bad for all the little derelict kids in the world."

"Fuck you, Ford."

Ford sighed and took off his suit coat, tossing it on the bed. "Can I ask you a question?"

"What?" He said, watching Ford roll his shirtsleeves up his forearms.

"Do you have any repeat customers? Any at all? Because I have to be honest, your customer service skills leave a little to be desired."

"My . . . my what?" Eliot couldn't believe what he was hearing. "My customer service skills? I'm a retrieval specialist, not a, a . . . customer service specialist!"

"Well, you see, that's' your problem right there. They're really kind of one and the same don't you think? I mean really. I just, uh, I think you'd, you know . . . build better client relations. I'm thinking about your best interest here, Spencer. I mean, you are kind of . . . _new_ at this whole retrieval thing. . ."

Ford smiled, benevolent and patronizing all at once, and Eliot felt his fingernails digging sharp into the palms of his hands.

Of course Ford would have done his homework.

Of course he knew that Eliot hadn't been in the business for long.

An irrational fear rose up in him. The fear that Ford had managed to peek behind the curtain and find out who he really was. _What_ he really was.

He put his hands on his hips and looked down at the tile floor, fighting to control himself.

He knew Ford couldn't have found out everything. He might know some things but he did not know the thing. Jacques never would have disclosed that, never would have mentioned Moreau or any of the other wet work, and Moreau kept the identities of his employees well guarded.

Still. Eliot hated Ford at that moment more than he had hated him at any other point. Absolutely loathed him for bringing that shame and fear bubbling to the surface.

But then, Eliot had done a little research too, hadn't he?

He thought about coming around the corner, Ford tucking something into his wallet, and he remembered the pretty wife and the cute kid and the smell of chlorine in the air.

He raised his head and tossed his hair back.

"Thanks for the the advice, Ford," he said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "But I know a few things. More'n some suit from _Sherman Oaks_ . . ."

Eliot let his voice trail off, then, let what he had said hang in the air between them, and it filled him with immense satisfaction the way Ford's look changed. That smug satisfaction turned to stone.

Eliot went on. "Spending your spare time by the pool. With your pretty blonde wife. And your cute kid."

Ford took two quick strides forward, so close Eliot could feel the heat coming off of him. "What do you know about my family?"

Eliot didn't move.

He could smell alcohol and fruit juice and garlic on Ford's breath, could see every pore on his face. There were so many ways to kill a man this close. A punch to the neck would crush his windpipe. A palm to the nose meant cartilage to the brain. A punch to the temple or the cerebellum or directly above the heart. Snap the neck, bash the skull, choke him out.

Ford's eyes were flashing bright even in the soft light of the room, but Eliot knew his own reflection well enough to know that his eyes were not flashing or bright. They were calm, and they were dead.

Eliot watched Ford casually, almost amused, waiting for Ford to notice those dead eyes and realize what had gotten himself into. He had wilted many a man with that look alone, but if Ford felt any fear looking into that abyss, he didn't show it.

Eliot laughed.

Now he got to be the smug one, the one in charge, and it was good to be king.

"Don't get so crazy, Ford. I don't know your family. I just figured, guy like you, living in SoCal, 'course you're gonna have a blonde wife and a cute kid and a pool. And live in Sherman Oaks like all the other Burbank guys. Guess you're not the only one who can read people, huh?"

Ford took a deep breath and stepped back, but he didn't relax. "You know what? I'm real sorry I pissed you off. But look at it this way. You finish this job, and you won't have to worry about me or IYS insurance ever again."

Then he turned on his heel and walked into his room, slamming the door behind him.

So that was that.

His first job with IYS was going to be his last. So much for Eliot Spencer branching out into legit clients.

* * *

Eliot's room was small and muggy, but it was tidy. There were no bed bugs or fleas or other vermin of any kind, and it was freshly dusted and mopped.

He sat on the edge of the bed and peeled off his shoes and socks, his feet pale and puckered from the heat and humidity. He closed his eyes and pressed his heels and toes against the cool floor tiles, taking long, deep breaths, counting off each one.

Once he had counted off three sets of ten, he stood and unpacked. He laid all his things in neat rows on the bed. Everything he might need for the worst case scenario: ceramic knives and knife holster; lightweight camp hammock with mosquito netting; nylon cargo pants and shirt; amphibious hiking shoes; rain poncho and pants; polypropylene underwear; wicking socks; water treatment tablets; venom extraction kit; insect repellent; heat powder; matches; compass; flashlight; soap; one change of clothes; a few packets of dehydrated food; protein bars.

He wondered what Ford had packed. A jungle was no place for cotton clothes and leather shoes. He could always check on him in the morning, make sure he had what he needed. But then he thought better of it.

Jungle rot couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

He stripped off his dirty clothes and took a shower. It was cold water only, but after the initial shock, it felt good. He lathered himself up from hair to toes, scrubbing off the long day's worth of sweat and grime. Then he toweled himself off and pulled on fresh boxer shorts. He laid out his clothes for the next day on the small dresser and packed the rest in his lightweight day pack. Then he laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan above him, listening to the sounds outside.

The mattress was fine, but it was too humid to get comfortable, even with the ceiling fan whirring on high speed over him, and even though he was never much of a sleeper, he knew he had to try to get some rest. He had a feeling he was going to need it come tomorrow.

What was done was done with Ford. He couldn't change that now. But he could finish the job right and move on to the next one, just like he always did.

He tried to sleep, but he kept seeing Nathan Ford instead. Ford as Henry K. Gillis, irritating but effective. Ford noticing him noticing the kids in the street. Ford standing nose-to-nose with him, full of idiot's courage. He thought about Ford jumping into the pool in his suit pants and the child-like enthusiasm that bubbled out of him after he conned the soldiers.

It was a smart move, too, the way Ford had set him up at the taco stand. It was the one he wanted to pull. And a voice whispering faintly in his head - the one he could barely hear - told him that he had played a part in the conflicts they'd had. Told him that maybe Ford wasn't all that bad. Maybe he had screwed himself out of a good prospect.

Then he shook those thoughts from his head, angry at himself for even considering them. So what if the guy had a happy little family. Nathan Ford was a suit, and where Eliot was from, the only people who wore suits were dead men and bankers. And at the end of the day, you couldn't count on either.

* * *

Sometime after midnight, he finally fell asleep, and he dozed until close to 2 a.m., when he heard a rumbling outside, soft, still some distance away, like thunder from a storm rolling in.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, toes spreading out on the tile floor as he made his way across the room and stood by the window frame, so he could peek out from the side. The people who were still outside were milling around the street, tilting their heads so they, too, could see what was coming.

It was a Hummer - pretty souped up, too, by the sound of it. It came down a parallel street, and Eliot caught glimpses of it in the spaces between the buildings across from the hotel. The headlights cut through the dark and the mist with a laser fine brightness, followed by the flash of metallic rims and running board. It felt like he was watching a tiger gliding behind jungle foliage, searching for a meal.

When it came around the corner and down the street in front of the hotel, he finally got a clear view of it, and he exhaled, and only then did he realize that he had been holding his breath.

The Hummer had been modified for jungle terrain with enormous wheels and an impressive suspension system that seemed to shift easily into every rut in the road. From the ground to the side runner must have been three feet, and the body was caked with mud.

It pulled to a stop in the middle of the street, right outside Florencia's restaurant, and the top skirted just along the bottom of the second floor walkway. It stayed there, engine rumbling low, for a solid minute before a man came out of the shadows - the drug dealer from earlier.

The guy in the Hummer was cartel, Eliot knew. That vehicle, the drug dealer running up to him like the beta dog in the pack. He was cartel, and pretty high ranking, too.

One of the Hummer's tinted windows slid down, and a man's forearm appeared, and if the size of his forearm was any indication, the man himself must have been huge. Eliot pressed his nose to the glass, trying to get a better look, but then the dealer pointed up at the hotel rooms, and Eliot pulled back.

He leaned against the wall, and he could feel the vibrations from the engine in his shoulders and his palms. He stared straight ahead, listening, mind racing.

This was a new development. And why did he think not a good one?

Eliot didn't risk a look after that, until he heard the Hummer's rumbling engine fade off into the near distance and then stop. By then, things had gone back to normal, and there were a few people milling around, drinking beers, a few prostitutes, the drug dealer back on the corner.

He went back to his bed, but he didn't sleep after that, ears straining the rest of the night for any sounds of a threat in the darkness.


	7. Chapter 6

_October 2004_  
_Miraflores, Guaviare Department, Colombia  
Day 2_

The drive took over a half an hour, over a rough dirt road that ran deep into the jungle. Ford drove, and he was silent the entire way. Still pissed from the night before, no doubt, and Eliot was right there with him. If Ford had seen the Hummer at 2 a.m., he didn't mention it, and Eliot didn't feel enough like talking to raise the subject.

Jorge Cabrera didn't live in a mansion or an estate or even a villa. He lived in a compound. A huge main house designed in some Greek Revival-Spanish Colonial mash-up, all of it surrounded by twelve foot concrete walls, with the jungle looming just beyond them. The house itself was white stucco with a tile roof, but then someone had had the bright idea to slap a Tara-like facade on it, complete with a porch that stretched the length of the house and four enormous columns standing like guards across the front.

There was a stucco guest house; a pool and a pool house. The grounds were plush grass, like something off a golf course. A neatly-laid brick driveway ran in a semi-circle from the bumpy dirt road outside the compound, and along the back wall, there were a line of smaller sheds, probably used for storage (of what, Eliot had to wonder).

Apparently, it was a destination place. Topless girls sunned by the pool, along with young guys drinking beers, the sound system blaring. Eliot thought he recognized one as a back-up player for the Angels. But what really caught his attention were the shady-looking guys in rubber rain boots, walking two pit bulls on chain choke collars.

As Ford parked the jeep in the semi-circle, Eliot said in a low voice. "See the guys with the dogs? _ FARC_."

They were the first words spoken on the entire drive, and Ford was all business about it. He leaned slightly towards Eliot, keeping his eyes on the men. "How do you know?"

"The boots. They're very distinctive boots."

"Huh," he said, considering Eliot's information. "I guess I can see that."

He climbed out of the jeep, leaning over the back to pull his leather briefcase out before he walked around to Eliot's side. Eliot was just about to get out of the jeep when he spoke.

"Try not to get in any fights while I'm inside," he said.

Uh, come again?"

"Hm?"

"While _you're_ inside?"

"Yes. While I am. I got this."

_I got this. Again with the I got this._

"Fine," Eliot snapped. "Don't blame me if he takes batting practice on your head."

Nate smirked and turned away from the jeep, nodding a cheery hello at the FARC men as he started up the long stairs that led to Jorge's front door. He was still a good six feet away when the door flew open and a stocky Jorge Cabrera stood inside smiling.

He was extremely friendly. For now. He and Nate shared a little small talk in Spanish as Jorge led Nate inside and closed the door, leaving Eliot sitting in the jeep in the driveway.

Eliot sighed. The FARC guys were watching him, and a few of the guys by the pool were watching him as well. One young guy in board shorts stood up and went over to the outside bar, and turned, making a big show of letting Eliot see the butt of a gun sticking up over his waistband.

Because that was scary: a rail-thin dude in floral shorts as big as a sail who didn't know better than to take his gun to the pool.

Eliot rolled his eyes to himself. Then he quickly bounded up out of the jeep and barely kept from laughing at the quick jerk by every single one of the guys watching him.

_Two for flinching, boys._

He smiled innocently at them and leaned against the jeep as his phone started to buzz. He looked at it.

Chapman.

* * *

He didn't always answer when Chapman called but sometimes he did. This time he did.

"What do you want? I'm working."

"Oh really? A little wet work on this beautiful fall day?"

"Not exactly." _You know I don't do that anymore_, he wanted to say, but he didn't bother.

"Too bad. That is your best talent, you know."

Eliot kept staring at the men around him, staring at them one by one. He was starting to feel particularly stony now, more and more cold and angry with Chapman's voice in his ear, and one by one, the men around him broke eye contact first.

Chapman kept going. "I had a job yesterday that made me think of you. Remember that guy Kozlov? The Russian guy in Bulgaria?"

Eliot remembered him well. That guy had a bad habit of challenging Damien's friends and allies. "Yeah, so?"

"He finally pissed Damien off one too many times."

"Not surprised," Eliot said.

"I know, bound to happen right? So guess who got to take care of him? I gotta say I missed your company."

"You'll figure it out."

Chapman chuckled. "Well, I can't wait for you to come back. These other guys aren't nearly as much fun to work with."

Eliot said nothing, and Chapman added: "Cute family, though, the Kozlovs. Well, they were."

Eliot's grip on the phone tightened.

Then there was a commotion. Eliot looked up at the house. Ford was walking calmly out the front door, folding the flap over his briefcase, and Jorge was following him, talking loudly. Obscenities and insults and threats. Ford slung the leather strap over his shoulder and patted the side of the briefcase as it rested against his hip and thigh. A message for Eliot: he had the crocodile.

He walked casually, like he was taking a stroll in a park, like there wasn't some big jock at his back screaming at him.

"I gotta go," Eliot told Chapman and hung up.

* * *

The FARC guys and the guys by the pool were up and moving, fast. But then so was Eliot. In his head, he chunked them into groups. Two-three-two-one. The two FARC guys - the ones who'd get to them first - the three guys by the pool on the near side, and then the two guys on the backside of the pool. He saved Jorge for last, although he figured by the time he went through seven guys, Jorge might not have much fight left in him.

As it turns out, he didn't have to get that far.

The FARC guys did him a favor by not sending their dogs. They had just fastened the chain collars to a peg in the ground before Ford and Jorge came out of the house, and they didn't bother to let them loose. They just came straight at him themselves. The first guy pulled out a knife and the second grabbed a crowbar from the back of a truck in the driveway.

Eliot smiled. They didn't think they needed guns for him.

The knife guy swung it high, going for the neck and Eliot ducked and punched the guy in the solar plexus. He noted the telltale sucking of wind with satisfaction - _gets 'em every time_ - and grabbed the wrist of the guy's knife hand, pivoting, throwing him over his hip. The guy landed hard on his back, and Eliot stepped on his rib cage, dislocating the guy's shoulder as he wrenched the knife free. He felt more than he saw the second guy, and he heard the whistling of the crowbar zinging through the air. Eliot juked left, just as the crowbar zipped by his head on the right.

When he turned around to face the guy, he heard Jorge yelling.

"Para!" he called out.

At first, Eliot thought Jorge was talking to him, telling him to stop. But then he saw the crowbar guy looking up at the balcony confused, and he chanced a look there himself.

Jorge was pointing at the guys by the pool, at the guy with the crowbar, yelling "_Para! Follar detener maldita sea_!"

Ford slipped by behind him with his briefcase and went to the jeep without a word. Eliot looked around and saw that - for whatever reason - Jorge wasn't letting anyone put up a fight.

He looked up Jorge, and Jorge leered at him. " ¡Adelante!" Jorge yelled, spitting off to the side. "Obtener el infierno que de aquí!"

Eliot eased back to the jeep and got in. Ford had left driving duty for him, and he pulled the car around quickly but carefully, looking for any sign of a trick. But there was none. Jorge had called off his men.

It almost got Eliot to wondering why, until he heard Jorge call out after them in English, just as they were leaving the grounds:

_"It's not me you gotta worry about!"_

* * *

"What just happened?" Eliot asked, turning the jeep back towards Miraflores.

"I gave him a choice - give me the crocodile or pay IYS back or get reported for insurance fraud and spend the rest of your life trying to avoid extradition."

"Who's this guy we've got to worry about?" Eliot asked, even though his mind went straight to the Hummer and the forearm extended out of the open window.

"No idea. Jorge said he'd promised it to somebody, but that's all he told me."

Ford pulled his briefcase into his lap and lifted the flap, peering into it. He reached in and lifted out the crocodile.

It seemed smaller than Eliot had remembered from the photograph. In Ford's hand, it was no longer than the heel to the middle digit of his ring finger, and it was thin, narrow, dark. The detail was interesting, though, even to Eliot. The thing had an actual expression on its face, knowing and not a little sinister.

Ford stared at it. For what seemed to Eliot like an overly long time.

Maybe he was wondering the same thing that was going through Eliot's head: _I hope you're worth it._

* * *

"I'm guessing we're not waiting for the charter," Ford asked when they returned to the hotel; Eliot snorted and shook his head as he parked the jeep, but the question had been asked dryly. Ford didn't expect anything else.

"You can wait for the charter," Eliot replied, already twirling the room keys around a finger; the soft metal-on-metal sound ringing in the muggy air. "If you want to fly back in a body bag."

He left Ford chewing on the thought, before he could come up with a comeback, and took the stairs to their rooms two, three and then four at a time.

He took Ford's room first, and he was pleased to find Ford's bag packed and ready to go on the bed. He grabbed it and went to his own room, sliding the key easily in the lock.

Eliot had always been intuitive. It was one of the reasons he was still alive. So he felt the presence in his room even before he smelled the cologne wafting through the door as he opened it, even before he heard the muffled creak of the bed springs and someone shifted.

The man was sitting there, his back reclined against the headboard, like he should have a book or a TV remote in his hands. The barely-scuffed soles of his dress oxfords were emblazoned with a lion crest and the declaration that they were _Made in Italy_.

Eliot walked in smoothly, closing the door behind him, gently placing Ford's bag on the floor. Movements slow and easy, confident.

The man was tall, muscles bulging against his silk t-shirt and the shimmering grey fabric of his dress pants. He was built like a brick wall, but way more intelligent, if Eliot went by the three-second view of his face he got while contemplating the best way to punt him out the window. That intelligence made its appearance right away - the guy didn't move, one way or the other. He didn't shrink back, but more important, he didn't come at Eliot either. He just sat there, hands folded in his lap, head cocked slightly to the side.

Eliot's fingers curled at his sides, knuckles cracking.

"Senor Spencer," the guy said, in a voice like oil over ice. "So good to see you in my neck of the woods."

"Bit warm, Senor…." Eliot let his voice trail off, fishing.

The man laughed.

"Cesar," he offered, freely. "Cesar Ventura. I know you, Senor Spencer. I know your….reputation." Eliot frowned, not dramatically, but he frowned nonetheless. "A dangerous man, hmm? One to be….respected. Not crossed."

Eliot felt a twinge of vicious pride. He'd worked for that reputation. But it was tempered with something else, that desire to be….different; the one Chapman kept rubbing in his face. Eliot killed the frown, and just grunted.

"You're working with a….certain gentleman?" Cesar continued, pacing a step or two. Eliot watched him from the corners of his eyes, watched him carefully. Just like Cesar was watching him. "He took something interesting from a friend of mine. Something very valuable. Something that was promised to me."

Ventura's hands were spread, his palms huge, and Eliot kept an eye on those hands because hands gave a person away every time. Ventura kept talking. "I must confess, I have grown very attached to it. But you don't seem overly attached to your friend."

"He's not my friend," Eliot bit out, instinctively.

Cesar smiled, beatifically. "Of course not." His voice was still snake-belly smooth. "Perhaps we can be friends?"

Eliot stared at him, noncommittal.

"I would like to offer an exchange, Senor. I get what was promised to me and…we get to have a nice chat with your… not-friend."

Eliot felt his brow furrow as he considered that offer and what was missing from that offer. "And what exactly do I get?"

"You get to watch," Cesar said, and his eyes took on that same deadness that Eliot had seen so often in his own. "And walk away."

"I'm not a killer." Unspoken: _anymore_. He reached to grab his bag, already packed, from its place on the floor by the dresser. There was nothing left in the room to say he had been there. He nodded in satisfaction, and turned to see that Cesar had not moved.

"I do not want to kill him," Cesar said, and Eliot just about gave him a look of extreme disbelief. "We just want to….teach him a little lesson. He'll walk away. Well, perhaps limp, but. He will live."

Eliot crossed his arms and cocked his head at the other man, his pack hanging heavy on his shoulder. "I'm in retrieval now. One of my clients gets hurt on the job . . ." Eliot shook his head. "Not exactly good for my professional reputation."

Cesar gave him a little shrug: _what can you do_? "A man with your particular talents, Senor Spencer, I'm sure you will find work in whatever field you may choose. From time to time, I myself have a need for certain . . . _retrieval_ work."

Eliot watched him, watched the thoughts flickering behind dark eyes, and felt that old darkness flickering in himself again.

"The next closest airport you can use?" Cesar said. "Is San Jose del Guaviare. I am sure this is no surprise to you."

He stopped, waiting for a reaction, but Eliot gave nothing away one way or the other.

(In fact, he knew before their plane hit the ground in Miraflores that San Jose del Guaviare was the closest place with a real airport and military that didn't all seem to be in the cartel's back pocket.)

"There are two routes. Through Barranquillita and then Calamar. Or through Santa Ines. I will have….some more friends along the Barranquillita route, waiting to meet you." He pretended to inspect his fingernails. Eliot pretended to be impressed. "All you, Senor Spencer, need to do is get your Mr. Ford to travel our way, and we. We will take care of the rest. Show him some true hospitality. Easy. Yes?"

"Easy, yes." Eliot replied. "But no."

"…think about it." Cesar said, giving him a polite bow. "But don't think too long. The jungle moves fast, Senor Spencer. You need to be faster, or you die."

And, with that charming statement, he smiled. "I believe you have a plane to catch."

* * *

"I thought you were just grabbing the bags," was the first thing Nate said when Eliot returned to the jeep, chucked his bag over the back of the seat and climbed in.

"I was," Eliot growled. "Just double checking that I had everything."

"….double checking," Nate said, as if to himself. "Hm."

Eliot ignored him as he climbed into the passenger seat and pulled a map from the glove compartment, spreading it between them. The route that took them to Calamar by way of Barranquillita was more direct, closer to a straight line. It was also, Eliot noted with a stab of regret, one of a few routes he had highlighted in case they needed an escape. That bright yellow line was blinking out at him like a caution light against the light blue background of the map.

"We're gonna take the route towards Santa Ines," he said. "Then we'll cut across."

"Why would we do that when you've got a direct route highlighted right here?" Ford asked, pointing, and the sharp exasperation in his voice went straight to Eliot's hackles.

"That's . . . a main route, too much traffic," he said, and he could have cursed himself at how vague he sounded. He tried again. "Your boy Jorge's not gonna lay down and let us waltz out, you know."

"That'll cost us an extra day. At least."

An extra day.

Eliot could hear the subtext there loud and clear: Ford was worried about his 7 day deadline. And with every other fucking thing Eliot had on his plate right now, _he had to worry about that_? "So what?" He snarled. "It's safer!"

"Isn't that what I have you for? To keep me safe?" Nate pulled the map up, jerking it from Eliot's fingertips as he did so, and he folded it with a decisive snap.

Eliot tried not to imagine forcing him to eat the map, even while he chastised himself: maybe if you told him about the Hulk in your room that wants the little crocodile? But Eliot found that he wanted to keep Ventura - and Ventura's offer - to himself, even as another voice in his head told him that the only reason to keep it secret is because he was actually considering it.

"Going towards Barranquillita cuts out a day of travel," Nate leaned across Eliot and gave the map a hard toss back into the glove compartment, slamming the door of it.

Eliot opened his mouth to protest, because that way lay a man with a promise of limps, of work that would come all too naturally to him, an offer that would be so easy to take, but then Ford gave him a look. That look - the arrogant, withering look from Chuy's that burrowed under Eliot's skin - and he spoke to him in that dismissive tone that made Eliot's blood boil.

"Time is of the essence heer, Spencer. Or did you forget that in your long detour to the rooms?"

Eliot was silent, staring at Ford's sharp blue eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, full of barely contained anger. "You want to go through Barranquillita?"

"Yes. And I'm not asking you for permission. Or your opinion."

"Fine," Eliot said, his voice almost a whisper as he thought of Cesar: _easy, yes_? "We'll go your way."

Eliot turned away from him and stewed in his seat as Ford drove. If that was Ford's choice, it was going to be Ford's fucking problem. What did he care? At the end of the day, Cesar Ventura was really more _his_ kind of guy than Nathan Ford. And if things went bad - went really bad - he could easily parlay this whole situation into a job or three for a cartel enforcer.

Whatever Ford got, it would be exactly what he deserved.


	8. Chapter 7

_October 2004_  
_Miraflores, Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_Day 2_

They drove.

They drove two hours in silence, Eliot gripping the edge of the jeep door, his eyes quick after every movement in the trees.

The jungle just kept skimming past, though, so close to the narrow road that Eliot could have reached out and touched green. There were no cartel workers, no FARC, no ambush.

_Not yet,_ Eliot told himself.

It was only a matter of time, he knew.

After another hour, they came upon a tree that had fallen across the road, and Eliot thought _This is it_. Someone had cut down the tree and left it there, forcing them to stop - the perfect trap.

Eliot climbed out of the jeep. The tree was some kind of ficus, with a long, bare trunk that disappeared back into the jungle, while the bushy top was splayed out over the road. As Eliot walked towards it, he held his breath - waiting for the sounds of men rushing at them from the palm-thick underbrush. He pulled his pocket knife from his cargo pocket and cut through a few of the branches in his way, but he watched the jungle the whole time.

Once he'd cleared out a space, he moved into it, shins pressed against the tree trunk, and then Ford was there, too, squeezing into the small gap in the branches next to him, so they could both get at the trunk. He was so close their shoulders pressed together.

They bent and lifted and walked it around towards the side of the road, but the back end of it got hung up, and they had to yank and pull and drag it, too, Ford nearly falling over him at one point before they finally got it stretched lengthwise along the side of the road, enough out of the way that they could drive past.

As Eliot scanned the jungle off the other side of the road, Ford brushed the dirt from his hands.

"Something wrong?" Ford asked.

"Nope."

But they both stood there for another few seconds, looking around, before Ford moved casually back to the jeep. Eliot watched him stretch his arms overhead, arching his back, loosening stiff muscles. The hem of his linen shirt came up over the waistband of his pants, showing a strip of skin - office-worker pale - along the small of his back.

As Eliot stared at it, an unwelcome game of word-association played through his head. Soft. Suit. Shrewd. Chuy's. Sherman Oaks. Pool. _Family_.

He sighed to himself.

There was no getting off this road now. They were taking it all the way . . . to wherever it led.

He climbed back into the passenger seat, and he gave the jungle around them one last once-over. He was ready for Ventura's men to make their appearance now. He was ready to get this thing over with.

* * *

Ford was talking.

Out of the blue, he'd started - bringing up interesting retrieval jobs he'd heard about; talking about a few of his own jobs; making small talk.

And really, Eliot wished he wouldn't.

(It made something that felt a lot like guilt coil, snake-like, in the pit of his stomach, because despite anything Cesar said, there was no guarantee that after this day, Ford was going to get a chance to talk about anything else ever again.)

When Ford started asking all kinds of questions about tricks of the trade, Eliot responded in grunts and terse monosyllables and tried not to think about the pool, the sound of the diving board, the little boy splashing into the water.

And he couldn't tell if Ford was doing it on purpose – was he trying to make inroads, make a connection with the only guy who could save his ass in this place? was he trying to cleverly prod Eliot for some information he thought was useful? – or was he just bored and wanting some company?

And that irked him too.

"So you don't have any kids," Nate prattled on, and Eliot growled, fingers twitching at what he thought was a dead topic between them. Nate, though, was staring at the rutted, bumpy road ahead, paying exactly no attention to Eliot's growling. "Got any nieces? Nephews?"

Ford looked over at him, eyebrows raised as if to say _well? _Then Eliot gave him a dirty look, and Ford's _well?_ expression changed to something more like _oooookay_, and he turned slowly back to the road. He readjusted his shoulders against his seat, curls a mess and sticking to his forehead with sweat. His hands were leaving streaks of sweat on the steering wheel. He was a far cry from the polished insurance agent, but Eliot was past the point of feeling satisfaction from it.

* * *

They drove another half hour before they rounded a long, lazy curve in the dirt road and found themselves coming up on a town, the biggest one they'd seen since Miraflores - and that was saying a lot, because really it was just a collection of ramble-down shacks around a dirt road, a busted soccer net off in a cleared patch to one side. Near the center, there was an outdoor kitchen of sorts - a thatch roof over a couple tables, a few propane cook tops, and a big, cast-iron wood oven and stove and cabinets here and there. A few old, beat-up coolers laying around.

There was also a jeep, parked across the road blocking their way, and four soldiers standing behind it holding assault rifles.

Ford stopped the jeep, and Eliot heard him let out something like a gasp or a huff, he wasn't sure which.

One of the soldiers looked directly at Ford, yelling and waving at him to get out of the jeep. He clutched the steering wheel, and turned his head just enough to look over at Eliot, looking for some kind of signal.

Eliot kept staring straight ahead. "Military checkpoint," he said, voice brusque. "It happens."

It was happening.

In that instance, Eliot tried to think about everything he hated about Ford. The arrogance, the stubbornness, the games. He thought of everything Ford had done to make his fists and his teeth clench, and he latched onto those moments like a fire in an arctic night, and he let them burn through him, so that when he leaned over and looked right at Ford, he could feel only the fiery anger rising up inside of himself, and none of the regret.

"_You got this_," he said, his voice hard. "Right? Senor Gillis? You and _your wallet_?"

Ford's eyes narrowed at that, his lips drawing tight, and he gave back a look almost as hard as Eliot's voice. "Yeah, I got this," he almost whispered.

He turned away from Eliot and climbed out of the jeep.

(What choice did he have after all?)

His gait was slow, cautious, almost submissive - a far cry from the bounding energy he'd used on the airstrip when they first arrived - and Eliot set his jaw as he watched him go.

Ola!" Ford called out to the soldiers. "Ola senors!"

The soldiers stepped around the jeep, and Ford stopped walking towards them. He was looking at their feet. They were wearing boots. Rubber boots. The same rubber boots Eliot had pointed out in Jorge Cabrera's front yard. These guys weren't military. They were FARC.

Ford turned back to Eliot, eyes urgent and questioning. Was he watching this? Wasn't he going to do something?

Eliot just leaned back in his seat and shrugged. He crossed his arms over his chest and ignored the sting he felt at the accusation written all over Ford's face.

It wasn't his fault. He'd given Ford a way out in Miraflores. He couldn't help it if Ford had been too stubborn to take it.

Whatever happened now was out of his hands.

Eliot gave Ford a grim, wry smile. "I told you we shoulda gone through Santa Ines."

* * *

The soldiers were on him instantly, three of them patting him down, none-too-gently.

"Where is the crocodile?" the fourth one asked.

"Oh, that old thing? I pawned that off hours ago. Shoulda used it to buy a burro, I hear they're very reliabl-" The rest dissolves in an indignant squawk, the search suddenly rougher –

But it produced the same results.

No crocodile.

Eliot could have sworn Ford was carrying it in his own cargo pants pocket, but apparently he'd move it somewhere along the way.

The fourth one - the one who wasn't manhandling Ford - walked to the jeep and looked in the back, examining the cargo area with lazy disinterest. He was pencil thin and very young. By the wispy fuzz of a mustache on his upper lip, Eliot would have been shocked if he was 18. Yet he seemed to be calling the shots.

"The green bag, the military bag, that is yours?" He asked Eliot in English.

Eliot nodded.

The FARC guy started rifling through Ford's black carry-on. He pulled out the clothes and toiletries and searched through every pocket, while Eliot watched him casually from the front seat.

Eliot could feel Ford's eyes on him, could feel the anger, the betrayal. Part of him wanted to meet that gaze head on - he was not exactly one to back down (Nathan Ford especially had a way of making him not want to back down) - but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He'd won plenty of staring contests in his time, but suddenly he didn't feel up to the challenge.

There was no crocodile in the bag, either.

"Take him to the kitchen," the leader said in Spanish.

Dirt flew underfoot, kicked up in little clouds as the men dragged Ford off his feet and towards the kitchen, as if he wasn't kicking and flailing and - according to one yowled curse - biting.

Eliot grabbed the edge of the windshield and pulled himself out of the jeep. He looked at the townspeople all around them. There weren't that many, but there we enough just milling around as if some guy wasn't getting his ass kicked right in the middle of their little town - this had clearly happened before, and they clearly knew better than to get involved.

He gave one last look at Ford's open bag in the back of the jeep before he tucked his hands in his pockets and sighed, heading off after the commotion.

* * *

By the time he got to the kitchen, Ford was on his knees, a trickle of blood dripping from a bitten lip, the imprint of a hand on the side of his face - defiance snapping in his eyes.

"You don't look like the knick-knack type," Ford was saying. "do you go antiquing?"

Eliot was barely done rolling his eyes before they had Ford bent over a table. One of the men - the biggest one - grabbed his wrist and bicep, twisting his left arm upward along his spine, pushing it and rotating it so far that his fingertips were almost touching the back of his head.

Eliot almost winced._ That hurt_. Ford had his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth gritted, and he might not have broken a sweat in the 105 heat in Los Angeles, but he was sure as hell sweating now. He did not, however, start whimpering like a little girl, like most of the suits Eliot knew would have.

(Like a few tough guys he'd worked with actually had when they'd had that particular move put on them.)

Eliot had to admit, Ford handled it about as well as you could handle it.

The big FARC guy pressed himself over Ford's back, putting his whole body weight into it, and Ford let out a strained grunt.

The other three men - including the leader- were all gathered around watching. Eliot kept expecting them to multi-task a little. At least one of the should have started searching the area - that's what he would do; hell, that's what any idiot looking for hidden goods would do - but they seemed perfectly content to stand around watching Ford get his arm messed up.

And he felt guilty, sure, but now this was starting to totally offend his professional sensibilities, too. It wasn't like there were a million places Ford could have hidden a rare artifact on a jeep in the jungle.

"Why don't you guys just go search the frickin' jeep first?" he asked, exasperated.

Four sets of FARC eyes turned up at him. Ford looked up at him, too, except the side of his face was being pressed into the wood table, so really, only one eye was visible. And that one was conveying an overwhelming sense of extreme displeasure.

Eliot looked away.

He assumed the men were going to follow his advice - it was very practical advice after all - but no sooner had they all looked at him than they were turning away, going back to Ford. Two of them grabbed Ford by the biceps and jerked him upright, and the big guy moved around in front of him, grinning.

The big guy pulled off his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a whispery zip. Then he started wrapping the belt tightly around his knuckles.

Eliot let out a long, angry breath. They were going to break every bone in the guy's face with that maneuver.

_Amateurs! Goddammit!_

And Ford wasn't helping matters either. He'd expected the guy to give the crocodile up at the first sign of trouble, but here he was acting like the fate of the free world depending on him keeping its whereabouts a secret.

_Figures_, he thought. _When the hell has Nathan Ford done what you wanted him to do?_

The big guy was just getting ready to let loose with a punch when the leader held up a hand.

He was brushing a finger along the light fuzz over his lip. He had a serious look on his face, and then he paused, like he'd just come up with an idea.

"You know . . . I am thinking," he said slowly, looking over at the big guy. "Why don't you go search the jeep?"

Like he'd just come up with the it himself.

Eliot rolled his eyes.

It was something of a relief though, even if the guy did blatantly steal his idea. Ford had probably stashed it under a seat or in the glove box or someplace like that, and Eliot allowed himself a few seconds of indulging in the best case scenario: the FARC'd get the crocodile, maybe rough Ford up a little more (hopefully not too much more); and then Eliot'd drive him to the airport and stick him on a plane. He wouldn't exactly get a letter of recommendation out of the job, but at least they'd both get the hell out of there, and he could forget that he'd ever heard of the Insurance Terminator.

Which sounded like a good deal given all the other possible outcomes. But then the big guy came back empty-handed, and Eliot could feel their chance of a best case scenario slipping away.

"Oh come on," Eliot said.

The leader looked over at him with raised eyebrows, as if to say _do you mind I'm kind of running this show_?

Eliot shot a look back to him. _Then run it_!

"I'm gonna go look in the jeep," Eliot grumbled.

He stormed out past the military jeep to their own light yellow abomination. He went through every nook and cranny, and found nothing. Then he went through again, and again he found nothing.

He was ready to punch something.

He put his hands on his hips and lowered his head, thinking. A strand of hair fell across his nose, and he blew a breath of air upward, sending it flying. He looked around for anything that looked like a hiding place. He wouldn't have stashed it on the road, so it had to be around somewhere, but Eliot went through Ford's bag and even his own, and it wasn't there.

Eliot shook his head. At this rate, Ford was going to get himself killed.


	9. Chapter 8

When he got back to the kitchen, they had Ford in a chair. The big guy was hovering over him, one hand fisted in his hair and the other one under his chin, his fingers digging bruises into Ford's jaw. He was pushing Ford's chin up with the one hand and jerking his head back with the other and screaming into his face, and the Insurance Terminator did not look happy. He was squinting into the screaming, his eyelids twitching every time the big guy got in a particular nasty yank against his scalp.

The leader was sitting on one of the tables, toes dangling over the dirt floor in a way that made him look even younger than he was. Until you saw the cool detachment in his eyes. His look was not quite as dead as Eliot's or Ventura's, but the young man seemed well on his way.

The men all turned to Eliot when he walked in. Or at least, all of the FARC men. Ford couldn't exactly turn his head with it being held in the big guy's vice-of-a-grip, but he did slant his eyes in Eliot's general direction.

Eliot met his gaze this time - the first time he'd done it since Ford had gotten nabbed - and he gave Ford a look that said _You're an idiot. Quit screwin' around and give 'em the goddamn crocodile 'cause I ain't stickin' my neck out for you_.

Or something like that.

The leader raised his eyebrows at Eliot. "Well?"

Eliot drug his eyes away from Ford'sand took a seething breath. "I got nothing."

"Well Esteban," the leader smiled at the big guy. "Looks like you didn't miss anything after all."

The big guy hadn't let go of his grip on Ford's hair and jaw the whole time, and now he looked down at Ford and grinned. He let go of the man's jaw to reach for his belt - he'd re-threaded it around his waist when he searched the jeep - giving Ford's head a vicious yank as he did.

"Wait," the leader said. "Deje la cinta. Obtener el cuchillo." _Leave the belt. Get the knife._

Everyone went quiet and still with that command, and before Esteban could go for a knife or Ford could fully process how much fresh pain he was about to feel or Eliot could decide what to do now, a smooth voice entered the room from behind them, filling it.

"Always with the knife. You are so predictable Leon."

Cesar Ventura.

* * *

Ventura was coming into the kitchen, followed by two other men. They had pulled up in another jeep while all eyes were focused on Ford.

He ducked under the low overhang of thatch, and casually reached up to rest one meaty hand on an overhead support pole. And he didn't have to extend his his arm far to reach it, either. He was wearing military-style green canvas pants and rubber boots and a black t-shirt stretched tight across his chest and biceps.

The men greeted him warmly, all smiles and handshakes and pats on the back. They were boisterous, happy to see him, like a bunch of high school football players welcoming back their star quarterback.

Eliot drifted towards the perimeter of the room and watched them, ignoring once again the weight of Ford's gaze. Suddenly, he felt tired. Very very tired of all of this.

When the men pulled away from Ventura, he looked over at Eliot, still smiling.

"Spencer," he said, drawing the name out like he was tasting it as he spoke. "I see you chose wisely."

"Whatever, Ventura. Just finish your business. I don't have all day."

"Too bad. All work and no play, you know . . . " He trailed off and raised his eyebrows suggestively, but if he was trying to throw out some sort of bait, Eliot wasn't taking it. "Perhaps you don't," Ventura decided. "I don't suppose I could interest you in a cup of tea then?"

Eliot looked at him like he'd sprouted an extra head. "No. You could not interest me in a cup of tea."

The big man shrugged and turned his attention to Ford, cocking his head as he examined the man in the chair in the middle of the room. Ford was massaging the elbow joint on his left arm and running his tongue along the place inside his bottom lip, where he'd bitten it. His shoulders were slumped forward just a little, and the look on his face was a mixture curiosity, fatigue, apprehension and calculation. Eliot could see his wheels turning as he tried to figure out the best approach to the new guy in the room.

"Perhaps it will be just you and I then?" Ventura said to him.

Leon seemed to take this as his cue, and he moved to one of the rickety-looking cupboards in the room, rifling through it until he found a simple pot with a long handle. He poured water from a jug into it and put it on one of the propane cook tops to boil, while Ventura strolled over to stand in front of Ford.

If Ford had been standing, Ventura would have had a good six inches on him, so now - with Ford in a chair - the cartel man loomed over him like a giant. Ford had to crane his neck back to see Ventura's face, but he did, and he did his best to look defiant.

"So nice to finally meet you, Senor Ford."

Ford started casually massaging his left shoulder. "Wish I could say the same."

Ventura smiled. He paced a few steps away from Ford and then turned and came back towards him. "You know what I am looking for Mr. Ford?"

"I have an idea."

Ventura kept smiling, and he paced away and back again, clasping his hands behind his back as he went. "You will find that I do not have Leon's patience Mr. Ford," he said, turning back around as he gave his ultimatum. "I will you give you this one opportunity to tell me what I want to know."

Ford was silent. He looked away from Ventura, staring at the ground in the distance, the only sound in the room the water boiling now on the cook top. He seemed to be considering the offer. Eliot could say that he honestly hoped he was considering the offer.

But then Ford took a deep breath and looked right at Eliot, grabbing his attention before Eliot could look away. He looked at Eliot like he was expecting something.

_Like maybe a rescue?_ Eliot chastised himself.

_Yeah well, not from me_, he shot back in his head. _Not today._

"Tell the man what he wants to know," Eliot told him. "It'll go easier."

Ford let out a grim chuckle, and his eyes grew dark. "Will it?"

Eliot didn't answer. He had to admit, he couldn't really say, and he couldn't bring himself to lie about it either.

Ford nodded at his silence, a bitter smile on his face. "Go to hell."

"Very well," Ventura said from off to the side. "Proceed."

A smile spread under Leon's fuzzy mustache, and he sprang into action. He went to a cabinet near the cast iron stove and bent over it, rooting through it, and Eliot walked over to get a better view of what he was doing.

When he saw the tin funnel and the short length of rubber hose, his stomach dropped.

He glared up at Ventura, and the big man stared right back at him, eyes dangerous; daring. Eliot went over to him and spoke to him in a low voice. "You told me he was gonna walk outta here!"

Ventura shrugged and said, equally low. "Not everyone dies from it."

Ford was watching their exchange, a crease between his eyebrows.

He hadn't seen what Leon was holding, and he hadn't heard what Eliot and Ventura said. He didn't understand yet what they were going to do.

Then two of the men grabbed his arms, holding him tight, and Leon came up to him with the funnel and hose in hand. Another man grabbed Ford by the head and jaw and started forcing his head back, and Ford started struggling. Wildly.

Now he knew.

Ford kicked out at Leon and the man jumped back, just out of reach of Ford's feet.

"Get him down," Leon ordered them in Spanish. "Pin him!"

Leon watched the struggled, growing more and more irritated, until he finally stepped around the back of Ford and clocked him on the head hard enough that he stilled, stunned, eyes blinking as he tried to focus.

It was all they needed to get him under control. The men with Ford's arms each pressed a boot onto one of his feet, too, and the two other men came in, one helping to hold him down and another digging his fingers into Ford's jaw and between his teeth, forcing his mouth open.

Eliot watched mutely as Leon stepped up, forcing the hose straight down Ford's throat. Eliot could see the outline of the hose underneath the skin of his neck, could see it moving down Ford's throat towards his Adam's apple, and Ford was gagging, the muscles in his throat convulsing against the intrusion.

Eliot took a deep breath as he watched it. He had seen this technique before. He had seen the results, and they weren't pretty.

He tried not to think about Ford's family.

He tried to tell himself it was all Ford's fault.

Ventura took the steaming pot from the stove, water bubbling as he turned and carried it towards the man in the chair.

Leon put the funnel in the top of the hose.

Ford was struggling as much as he could while being held down by four guys, and Leon was holding the hose and funnel steady as Ventura started to raise the pot of water. There was a happy, anxious look on Leon's face. The young man was excited by this.

Ventura was just about to tip the boiling water into the funnel when Ford started squawking, and even with a rubber hose down his throat, it sounded decidedly like "Wait!"

Ventura paused, eyebrows raised, the lip of the pot poised at the edge of the funnel. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Ford made his gurgled squawking noise again, more loudly this time.

Ventura withdrew the pot and nodded at Leon, who was clearly disappointed. He removed the funnel from the hose and yanked the hose from Ford's throat, leaving the man gasping and retching, spit hanging from his lips.

_Finally!_ Eliot thought. Ford was getting some sense in his head. He felt an inordinate sense of relief. He knew they weren't out of the woods yet. Cesar might still decide to kill Ford, but not having to watch them boil his insides was at least a start.

"You wanted to say something Mr. Ford?"

"I'll tell you," he gasped, raising upright in his chair. "I'll tell you where it is."

Ford took several deep breaths, the men all waiting.

Then Ford looked directly at Eliot. "He's got it."

* * *

Eliot looked around the room, at all the eyes that were turning on him. "What?!"

He officially was not feeling sorry for Nathan Ford anymore.

Eliot pointed a finger at Ford. "He's lying,"

Ford was still breathing hard, still catching his breath. "No, I'm not lying. I swear. We were going to sell it in San Jose del Guaviare. Split the profits." Then he added with dramatic flare. "Please just don't hurt me!"

Eliot growled and rolled his eyes.

He was ready to put the hose back in Ford's throat himself when Ventura turned to him. "Surely, you wouldn't mind if we searched you, Senor Spencer? If you have nothing to hide . . ."

"Fine! Be my guest," Eliot said, holding up his arms.

Leon came over and patted him down, running his hands down Eliot's outstretched arms, underneath his collar, around his chest and down his sides. He moved down Eliot's legs, pulling Eliot's wallet from his back pocket before putting it back in.

He stopped again at the pockets along the side of his pants legs and felt a bulge there.

"That's my pocket knife," Eliot told him.

Leon fished inside and stopped. Then he stepped back, pulling with it the dark, shiny figure of a wooden crocodile.

"What?!" Eliot said.

He whipped around to look at Ford, and the man gave him a shrug and that smile that was polite but in no way friendly, just like they were in Reseda again.

_Sonofabitch._

"It is not wise to try to trick me, Senor Spencer," Ventura said. He had a deadly look in his eyes, and the men in the room were all focused on him now.

"Oh come on, Ventura," Eliot said. "He obviously planted it on me!"

Ventura looked at him closely, and Eliot could tell that he was not buying it. Or if he was, he didn't care, and for the first time, Eliot realized that Ventura might be looking at him as a loose end, something that needed to be tied up. And wouldn't this be a good excuse for tying up loose ends?

"Why am I not convinced?" Cesar asked. Then he clicked his tongue._ Tsk tsk_.

It was a signal, Eliot knew.

Leon made a run at him first, straight at him, the crocodile still in one hand. But Leon was built like a thistle. Eliot was built like a running back. For all Leon's sheer sleaziness, he never had a chance. Eliot punched him right in the nose, breaking it, and before Leon could collapse backwards, Eliot was barrelling into him, coming in low, lifting him up and driving him back into Ventura

The two of them toppled backwards, Ventura falling with Leon on top of him, and Ventura's head hit the cast iron stove with a sound like a muted bell being struck. He went out like a light..

The other five were a breeze. They were close enough that they never even got their guns drawn before Eliot had laid them all out.

He was just finishing off the last one when he realized Ford was gone. And the crocodile that had fallen out of Leon's hand was gone, too.

He was just processing that little tidbit of information when a jeep zoomed by outside the kitchen, heading for the northwest dirt road that led out of town. Eliot whirled, half expecting more FARC.

Instead, he got a perfect view of the dirty yellow jeep flying past, with Nathan Ford in the driver's seat, and it felt like he was watching in slow motion when Ford smiled and waved at him.

_Sonofafuckingbitch._

Eliot was at Ventura's jeep in an instant, only to find that the tires were flat. Ford had punctured them on his way out. Which Eliot would have appreciated as a smart move if it didn't piss him off so much under the circumstances.

The tires on the FARC guys' jeep were flat, too, and one of them still had the knife in it. Eliot's own pocket knife. Which Ford had somehow managed to nab and hide and when he'd planted the croc in Eliot's pants pocket.

Eliot grabbed the handle, a deep scowl on his face. It was stuck tight, which was probably why Ford had abandoned it. He wiggled it loose and started towards the Northwest road. As he walked by the kitchen, Leon staggered out, blood running freely from his nose. He had a piece of firewood in his hand, raised overhead to strike. Eliot didn't even bother looking at him. He just thrust his fist out, and Leon's head snapped back, and Leon and his firewood dropped to the ground.

The townspeople were gathering around now. If it wasn't unusual to see a guy getting his ass kicked in the middle of their communal kitchen, it was a bit out-of-the-ordinary to see one guy take out a cartel enforcer and a group of FARC guerillas. He looked around and noticed the front bumper of an old pick-up truck sticking out from behind a cluster of shacks. He pointed to it and pulled out his wallet.

"How much for the truck?"


	10. Chapter 9

_October 2004_  
_Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_Day 2_

Eliot was about 40 miles outside of town, following jeep treads, when they disappeared off the side of the road and down an embankment into the jungle. And there - crawling up over the side, dragging his carry-on and his briefcase behind him - was Nathan Ford. He was a mess - breathing hard, fresh scrapes on his face and neck, a wide dirt smudge down the front of his shirt and pants. He looked like he'd done a body slide down the embankment, probably after he jumped or was thrown from the jeep. There were twigs and leaves all over him, falling out of his hair, dropping from his clothes as he hauled himself back up onto the road.

Then he noticed the approaching truck, and Eliot had to admit that the _oh shit_ look that spread across his face was almost enough to make up for all the trouble he had caused.

_Almost._

For a moment, Ford hesitated. He glanced around nervously, looking back down the embankment, looking up the road, but he seemed to register that he couldn't outrun Eliot, and there was nothing he could use for a weapon, and his _oh shit_ looked changed to something more like a resigned _fuck it_. He took a deep breath and pulled his bags up behind him, his briefcase spilling papers as he heaved it onto the road. He took two rubber-legged steps and stopped, bending over at the waist, trying to catch his breath.

He was still bent over that way, his hands on his knees, as Eliot stepped out of the truck and walked towards him. From the look on his face, Ford knew he was in trouble.

He held out a hand, palm up, the universal sign of stop.

"Time out," he gasped.

Eliot was incredulous. "Excuse me?" he said, still walking.

"I said-" wheeze - "time out."

Eliot didn't stop. He grabbed Ford's outstretched hand, bending it straight back. "Time out!?"

Ford grimaced and dropped to his knees, and Eliot kept pushing the wrist back, until he was standing over Ford, straddling his torso, and Ford's back was arched in a futile attempt to get away from the pressure. Eliot leaned over him, his hair sticking to the sweat on his face, eyes wild and angry.

"Time out!?"

Eliot pushed back on the wrist until Ford nearly did a back bend from his knees. His legs flopped out from under him, and he hit the ground on his back, a puff of rust-colored dirt rising up around him. Eliot jammed a knee into the center of his rib cage and kept the pressure hold on his hand.

"Is this some kind of a game to you, Ford?" he snarled. "Cause I ain't playin'." Eliot switched up his hold, gripping Nate's wrist in his left hand. "You set me up."

Ford was still breathing hard, features squeezed tight, and wincing at every movement of Eliot's knee, but when he heard Eliot's accusation, his eyes snapped open, dark with defiant.

_"You set me up first."_

Eliot pulled his fist back, coiled to strike, ready to deliver the kind of punch that would have a man seeing stars for a week, but Ford was still staring straight at him, sweaty and dirty, eyes wild and angry, face streaked with blood, and before he knew it, Eliot was pushing himself up and off away from him.

He took two steps back while Ford laid on the dirt road and stared at the sky, chest rising and falling with his heavy breaths, before he finally sat up, legs stretched out in a V in front of him.

A faint breeze came through, stirring up the papers that had fallen out of Ford's open briefcase, sending them swirling up and tumbling into the air, and Ford must have still been stunned, because he zoned out on them, head moving back and forth, then in a circle, as he followed their movement. Then he seemed to catch himself, and he hauled himself to his feet and walked over to the side of the road, heaved the bag up and started gathering up the papers.

"He's after both of us, now," he said. "We're better off together."

"That what you think? That's funny, Ford. 'Cause it seems to me like I'd be a helluva a lot better off leaving you right here for Cesar."

That it meant leaving Ford dead (or in no condition to try an escape) was left unsaid.

Ford was leaning down to pick up a crumbled piece of paper when Eliot said that, and he paused mid-reach. He knew exactly what was being left unsaid.

"Well . . .yeah," he said. "There is that, I guess." He straightened up stiffly and put the paper back in his bag.

Then he looked at Eliot. "I'll double your fee."

Eliot smiled at that - a joker's smile - eyes calm, his whole body calm. The detached calm he got when he turned everything off. It was the way he'd felt on some of his military jobs. The way he felt on his jobs with Chapman.

(It was a deceptively soothing feeling - separating yourself from yourself.)

And while part of Eliot appreciated that Ford was being so direct about . . . things . . . it didn't change the facts.

"We're way beyond the fee, Ford. This is what we call FUBAR."

"Fucked up beyond all recognition."

"That's right," Eliot nodded gravely. "And there's one good way to fix it."

"For you maybe," Ford said, and his voice was sharp enough that it stung Eliot just a little.

Then Ford took a deep breath, and he shook his head and smiled, but there was no humor in it. Only a flat recognition of his situation. He was alone in a jungle with hired muscle he barely knew whose best chance at survival was leaving him dead or injured on the side of the road. He was screwed, and he knew it.

Eliot expected him to try to talk his way out of it. He was looking forward to him trying to talk his way out of it. He hated Ford's talking. If he had to take Ford out, it would at least give him some satisfaction to do it while he was in the middle of some fast-talking one-sided negotiation.

When Ford didn't start talking, Eliot half-expected him to make a break for it, but the guy must have understood his physical limitations, because he didn't do that either.

Another breeze came through, came straight down the road, blowing more stuff around. Eliot watched Ford slowly move to retrieve the stuff. It was mostly his papers - the reports Eliot had seen on the plane, the file on Jorge Cabrera - nothing Ford was going to need now. Nothing he was going to need ever again.

"What are you doing?" Eliot finally asked. "What do you think you're gonna do with that stuff?"

Ford stopped and looked around at everything left to be picked up, and then he laughed, a short rueful, self-reproaching little laugh. "I don't know. What else am I supposed to do?"

It was the first indication that Ford was actually, genuinely rattled.

A small, rectangular piece of paper flitted through the air, and Eliot snagged it and turned it in his hands. It was a child's drawing, a trio of stick figures against a background colored in wide, thick, blue strokes - by a child pressing down far more than he needed to. The proportions were right - the first one was the biggest, with brown hair, the second one was smaller, with long yellow hair and a little red circle for a mouth, and the last one was the smallest, with brown hair and a big 'u' of a smile.

Eliot felt his pulse quicken, felt something like anxiety well up in him - something that threatened the peaceful, dead calm he needed to do what he had to do.

He kept his features calm, though, when he turned it around to show Ford. "So who's this?"

Ford rushed forward and snatched it from Eliot's fingers. He dropped his briefcase and took it in both hands and stood there, perfectly still, staring down at it.

It made Eliot feel ashamed.

"That's the pretty blonde wife and the cute kid," Ford said, looking right at Eliot. "You know, the ones you just guessed about."

Then he gave Eliot a smirk, or something close to a smirk. There was too much awful anticipation in it for it to really amount to a smirk, and Eliot thought back to the bar with Jacques, where he had pretty much convinced himself that this job - this idea of doing something legitimate - was nothing more than a fantasy, and if he had only listened, he would have been someplace else, anyplace else, instead of here in this moment about to kill Nathan Ford.

(Because he wasn't fooling himself. He could leave the guy here, but at the end of the day, that was no different than snapping Ford's neck himself.)

_Everybody comes back_, Chapman told him. _Everybody_.

Ford folded the drawing carefully, fingers unsteady, before he tucked it into his shirt pocket and pressed it there against his chest. Then he stared straight at Eliot, his eyes as clear as the Caribbean, revealing everything underneath - fear, sadness, determination, defiance.

And Eliot - looking at those conflicting emotions - found that he could not move.

He didn't want Ford to know it was coming, and he especially didn't want Ford to accept it. He wanted him to beg, to plead, to bargain, to run, because it would be easier to take care of him in a fight or in a chase than having to stare down the man at the moment he did it.

_You're no different_. Chapman's voice told him. _Why don't you just get it over with_?

Eliot thought back to the airport, to that loaded question at the check-in counter.

_Do you want to change?_

He stood there for a long moment. Staring at Ford and his clear blue eyes. Both men silent. Everything silent, until he heard a small voice in his own head.

_Well, do you?_

Eliot shook his head at the voices and he growled. Loudly.

Then he turned and stalked away from Ford.

Then he turned and stalked back to him, right back to the place he'd been standing, a foot away from the other man. He pointed a finger at him, eyes flashing. "I hate you."

Confusion flickered across Ford's face. Confusion, and then something else. Hope.

"I know you do," he said quickly, earnestly.

"I mean I really_ really_ hate you."

"Yeah, no, yeah. I get it. I can be a real asshole."

Eliot ran his hand through his hair and started pacing with more vigor. "Yeah! Why is that? Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass? Right from the start! From the minute I met you! Seriously, man. What am I supposed to do with that!?"

Nate nodded, going with the moment. "No, I . . . yeah . . . well. My wife says I should be more of a people person."

"You should listen to your wife."

"Absolutely. I absolutely will." Then he added, tentatively, "you know, as soon as I see her."

Eliot glared at him for one last long moment. "Good. Now go get your shit together and let's get going."


	11. Chapter 10

_October 2004_  
_Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_Day 2_

They drove the truck until they couldn't drive any further, which was not all that far. The road got progressively worse - portions of it were partially washed away by mudslides, and they had to move a half dozen trees that had fallen across it - and then eventually, it just . . . ended. Like whoever had been building it got fed up with the job and decided, _eh, screw this!_ and turned around and went back the way they came.

_They had the right idea_, Eliot thought as he and Ford climbed out and stood in front of the thick expanse of trees and vegetation in front of them. Turning around would be the best possible option, if only it wouldn't also have involved getting his own insides boiled by Cesar Ventura.

"Now what?" Ford asked.

"We walk," Eliot said.

Ford absently rubbed his shoulder and kept staring at the jungle while Eliot went back to the truck, rooting through the glove compartment and the storage bins in the back. He found a tarp and some lengths of bungee cord and a couple of unopened bottles of water. He found a lighter and a machete.

Ford's carry-on had a zip-away day pack, and Eliot removed that. Then he went through the bag itself.

"Do you mind?" Nate asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as Eliot started pulling out boxer briefs and t-shirts.

Eliot ignored him and held up a t-shirt and socks and khakis - all lightweight, but all cotton. "You know, for a guy who gets down here a fair amount, you sure packed for shit."

"I don't usually work from the jungle," Nate said defensively.

Eliot folded the tarp and put it in Ford's pack. He threw in the socks and the t-shirts and the boxer briefs. They'd be worthless for hiking, but they'd be dry clothes to sleep in at the end of the day. If they got much sleep. Then he added the water bottles and a pen light he found in Ford's briefcase.

"You gonna put that croc in here or you carrying it?"

"Carry."

Eliot nodded, zipped the pack and threw it to him (or possibly at him), and Ford caught it against his chest with an _oof_.

"Thanks a lot," he grumbled.

Eliot slung his own pack over his shoulders and picked up the machete.

Ford looked at him skeptically. "We're seriously walking to San Jose del Guaviare?"

"You want to wait for Ventura, you feel free," Eliot said. "I'm walking."

Then he turned and started hacking his way through the underbrush.

* * *

They hiked until almost dusk, and Eliot set a brisk pace - as quick as he dared to go through through the jungle brush with Ford in tow. Ventura would be the least of their worries if one of them stepped on an Equis viper or grabbed a branch with a Banana spider on it.

When they stopped, Eliot was barely winded, but Ford was breathing like he'd just run a race, an irritated look on his face as he waved at the gnats clustered around the open scrapes on his cheek.

They were in a decent-sized clearing, and the trees were right for stringing up hammocks - his camp hammock and the one he'd rig for Ford from the tarp and bungee cords they'd found in the truck. (It wouldn't be as bug proof as Eliot's, but it'd be off the ground, and it'd be dry.).

"We'll set up camp here," Eliot said.

"Looks homey."

Eliot smirked and tossed him a protein bar from his bag. Ford caught it against his body, using his right arm like a basket. He was still favoring the left.

Eliot had to admit, he'd expected Ford to bitch about it the whole afternoon. He'd had that same twisty-pressure move put on him once in Afghanistan, and it was not a pleasant feeling. It'd taken a week before he could raise his arm more than a few inches without a burning, shooting, numbing pain from armpit to fingertips.

Ford tore open his bar with his teeth and took a bite. "So what's our plan," he asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Keep going northwest until we hit the river," Eliot said, nodding in the direction they'd be walking, "and we follow that straight on to San Jose del Guaviare. There's two flights a day to Bogota from there."

Ford chewed and thought about that. "How long is that going to take?"

"If we move fast enough? If Ventura doesn't catch up with us. If we get a little lucky? I'd say . . . three days, maybe four."

Ford nodded, silent, his eyes drifting as he mulled something over. He walked over to an enormous tree - so big that its roots extended partially above ground like a giant's fingers - and sat at the base of it.

Eliot knew what he was thinking. He was thinking about his goddamn deadline. He had the good sense not to bring it up, though. Apparently, even the Insurance Terminator wasn't audacious enough to start making demands on the guy who just barely decided not to kill him.

Eliot didn't mention that they'd have to be very lucky to make it by his deadline. The rundown truck had been a blessing in disguise with the supplies it had in it. But Ford was banged up. His clothes and his shoes - ridiculous leather and gore-tex dress-casual lug sole shoes that probably weighed 5 lbs each - were a problem. They were going to have to go all-out survivalist on this one, and Eliot was quite certain that the office-pale, trimmed-nail insurance man didn't have it in him.

And then there was Cesar.

They had a decent head start, and it'd take a while for him to get any transportation even after he woke up and shook the cobwebs out of his attic.

But once he did, he was going to move fast.

Eliot looked at Ford. He had his shoes off, and his feet were pinkish-white, like newborn rats. There were puff,y disc-shaped blisters on his toes and the balls of his feet. The blisters on his heels had rubbed open and then rubbed raw; they were red and bleeding.

Cesar was going to move a lot faster than they would.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for all the reviews and support so far! This is a short chapter, but I'll get the next one up soon. Jungle fun awaits! For everyone who wondered - yes, Nate did plant the crocodile on Eliot while they were moving the tree. He was already suspicious of Eliot, so he did the switcheroo just in case it looked like Eliot was going to double-cross him. He probably would have held out a little longer with Cesar and his goons, but the threat of having his insides boiled . . . well, yeah. That kind of spurred things to a head. :)


	12. Chapter 11

"The forest did not tolerate frailty of body or mind.  
Show your weakness, and it would consume you without hesitation."

_October 2004_  
_Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_Day 3_

For a first lesson of the jungle, Ford's could have gone a little smoother.

_Scorpions Like Boot_s wasn't exactly an ideal place to start.

(And Eliot knew Ford would be a liability, but that Ford didn't already know at least that much took the term liability to whole new levels.)

Ford was up near dawn, just as the jungle was greying towards daylight. Eliot had been up for an hour, packing up, doing a little scouting, orienting himself. Mentally mapping out the day.

(They had a long trek ahead of them, one that would be mentally taxing as much as physically. One of them had to be ready for that.)

When Ford slung his legs over the side of the tarp-hammock and sat upright, and Eliot nearly burst out laughing at the sight.

Eliot had spent his own first night in a jungle when he was still in the military, before he had learned to control his sleep - to _own_ it - to get what he needed when he needed to fuel his body. He remembered well how stunned he'd been by the oppressive humidity; the bugs that no amount of DEET could fully repel;and the awful, relentless noise, like a monstrous wave crashing and crashing and crashing and never withdrawing. He'd laid awake all night, swatting at the bugs and scratching at bites and tossing and turning.

But as bad as that had been back then, he couldn't believe it had produced results quite like this.

There were crease marks across the right side of Ford's face from a fold in the tarp he'd slept on, and the left side of his face and neck was pocked with mosquito bites. His hair was matted flat on the right, pressed against his head like it was painted on, and on the other side, it was flying away wild, Einstein-like. And if the redness of his eyes were any indication, he'd maybe gotten an hour of uninterrupted sleep. He was swaying slightly where he sat, like a drunk.

"Look who's all bright-eyed and bushy tailed," Eliot snickered, pulling on his amphibious hikers over his bare feet.

Ford blinked slowly, and rubbed his eyes.

Eliot dug in his pack for his surplus of socks and sock liners. He threw a pair of each into Ford's lap. "Here. You're gonna need these."

Ford lifted them up and looked at them. Then he looked at Eliot's feet and saw that he had changed shoes. Then he thought about that. It seemed to take him an inordinate amount of time to resolve that mesh shoes minus hiking boots meant surplus socks.

"Perk up, Ford," Eliot said, and clapped him on the back. "Only 80 more miles to go!"

Ford grunted and tipped himself forward out of the hammock. He took off the dry t-shirt Eliot had packed for him and shuffled over to the branch his clothes were hanging from, and if Eliot hadn't already known that the cotton cargo pants and linen shirt would be chilly and damp, the look on Ford's face when he pulled them on confirmed it.

He sat back on a tree root and was just reaching to pull on one of boots over the new socks and liners when Eliot lunged at him. He slapped the boot out of Ford's hand and turned it upside down, shaking out a scorpion as thick as a roll of quarters.

Eliot couldn't believe he'd be so stupid.

"Rule number one. Shake out your damn shoes!"

* * *

"How long is this really gonna take?"

"We've been walking for an hour, Ford."

"I realize that. But you know, I'm just uh . . . I want to know how long we're really in for here."

Eliot stopped in his tracks and turned to look at Ford. "More than an hour!"

They walked in silence for a few minutes more, before Ford said "I'm holding you to seven days you know."

Eliot hacked into a branch close to him with slightly more force than was absolutely necessary.

"We're almost three days down," Ford continued, as if Eliot couldn't do math. "Four to go. Three really. We've got to get on the last plane out of San Jose del Guaviare by the 26th."

Eliot pulled back a long rubbery palm branch, but rather than hack at it, he stepped forward and let it snap back, swinging behind him, smacking Ford right in the face.

"Oops!" He called out over his shoulder, and turned to hide his smile.

* * *

Eliot decided that maybe his pace wasn't as fast as it should be, because Ford kept talking. He talked while they walked. He talked on their ten minute breaks. He talked while he sipped water, while he chewed on the tender inner stalk of a palm stem that Eliot had cut for him. He even talked while they were standing side-by-side, urinating.

They were resting in a small clearing, Ford sitting on the ground to rest his feet, when he said, "So, ah, you've done a little work in the jungle?"

And from the tone of his voice, Eliot could tell it was a question he'd been waiting to ask.

"More'n you."

"Was that on a retrieval or . . . "

Eliot didn't answer, but he gave Ford a sharp look. One that definitely said _Don't Go There_.

"Just curious," Ford said, lumbering to his feet and stretching his back. He grimaced as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. "That's good for us. Makes me thing . . . I don't know, maybe I picked the right guy after all."

"What are you, sucking up?"

Ford smirked. "No, Spencer, I am not sucking up. Just, you know, making note." He leaned back against a tree. "Of course, you haven't made the deadline yet."

The deadline. Eliot was on the verge of a retort, a threat even, but he decided to let nature be his best response.

He had seen the trail of ants along the back of tree Ford was standing next to. Ford had not. As soon as Ford's body touched bark, he was swarmed by them.

He never saw Ford move so fast.

He spun away from the tree, swatting as his neck and his arm and his shoulder. Then he turned in circles like a dog chasing his tail, trying to get at any on his back.

Eliot laughed hard enough that he felt it in his stomach muscles.

When Ford finally got done, he looked at the red welts on his arm. Then he looked at Eliot, exasperated, and held up a hand - as if Eliot had been coming to assist, and he was waving him off. "No really, not at all. No help necessary. I've got it alllll under control."

Eliot wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "Rule number two, Ford. Watch what you lean against."

* * *

By afternoon, the mucky, flat terrain had turned into mucky, hilly, rocky terrain, and Ford was gasping and panting behind him. And occasionally stumbling and slipping and falling and cursing behind him.

Eliot's own clothes - which were made for wet conditions - hung damp on his frame, so he knew Ford must feel like he was dressed in steamed towels. And then there were his feet. They'd crossed at least two murky streams, wading thigh deep, and no amount of synthetic fibers or liners were going to keep his feet dry with that kind of water pouring into his shoes. But the leather and gore-tex sure as hell would trap all the moisture in there.

Eventually, they came upon a narrow stream with water bubbling clear over the rocks in it, small crayfish swimming in the pools. Eliot kneeled over it, filling their water bottles.

"Is that safe?"

Eliot grabbed a crayfish and held it up, "Should be - these are a good sign."

Then he popped it in his mouth and crunched it up.

"Seriously?" Ford gave him a slightly repulsed look, scratching at the mosquito bites on his neck.

"Delicious," Eliot smiled. Then he waved Ford over. "Come here."

Eliot scooped a dollop of mud from the edge of the stream and spread it over a couple of mosquito bites on Ford's face. Ford almost pulled back - he was clearly surprised by the contact - but Eliot could tell that he was feeling the cooling effects of it. His face softened with relief almost immediately.

"Put that on your ant bites, too. That's better'n benadryl right there."

Ford nodded and Eliot could feel his eyes on him as he turned to finish with the bottles.

"Thanks."

* * *

Near nightfall, when they were ready to set up camp, Eliot scaled a tree to scout their position. He was looking for the river, but he was looking for any sign of trouble, too. Perhaps some fire or other indication of whether Ventura and his FARC goons were closing in on them, but there was nothing.

"We should have a pretty good head start right?" Ford asked, when Eliot's feet were back on solid ground.

"Yeah, pretty good," Eliot nodded. And he was cautiously optimistic. The truck he took was the last vehicle in the little town without slashed tires, and the closest town where Ventura could get more was Miraflores - six hours away. Even if Ventura had woken up immediately after Eliot left, had new vehicles sent his way, they wouldn't have made the jungle before dark, and they wouldn't have tried to track them overnight. "We should have probably a day's head start."

"Good," Ford said earnestly.

While Eliot started to get the tarp and the hammock out, Ford examined his arms and legs and lifted his shirt, looking at his chest and belly, feeling around his back. (They'd already pulled at least a dozen leeches off their bodies.) Then he flopped onto a clear spot on the ground and sipped his water, staring blankly at the ground near his feet.

He had been visibly limping when they made camp, and Eliot could see in his eyes that the jungle was getting to him. Getting in his head. It had a way of doing that, especially with first timers. (But even, under the right circumstances, with people who'd been there often). It was enormous, and it pressed down on you like a heavy weight. Relentless humidity and wild noise and dozens of things that bit and stung and sucked your blood.

Eliot decided to try to keep it light. "Try not to sleep on your face tonight, okay? That was not the most attractive bedhead."

Ford scowled without bothering to look up.

"Or if you do," Eliot said, "at least try to sleep on the left side of your face. It'll give the mosquitoes something new to chew on."

Ford did look up at him then, eyes glaring, but there was a wry amusement there, too. "Thanks alot. Did anyone ever tell you you suck at giving advice?"

Eliot couldn't help but smile. "Did anyone ever tell you you shouldn't criticize the guy with the machete?"

* * *

Eliot woke to the sound of a heavy branch snapping, of monkeys screaming a retort.

He jerked up, his face pressing up against the insect netting on his hammock. He immediately unzipped it, and listened hard, waiting for any other unusual sounds.

_Just a falling branch_, he told himself. And it was a common thing. Falling branches, falling trees. Those killed as many people in jungles as jaguars or snakes or crocodiles or spiders.

Still, something felt . . . _off_.

He unzipped his hammock, using the flashlight that he kept next to him to scan the ground before he let his feet touch. Ford lay unmoving in his tarp-hammock, probably exhausted enough by now that the bugs and the noise weren't keeping him from sleeping.

Eliot scanned the trees with the light, half-expecting to see glowing eyes staring back at him, but he saw nothing. And there were no more noises either, beyond the usual cacophony of bugs and frogs and monkeys.

He slipped his feet into his shoes and started walking.

He monitored the ground closely, listening intently, every muscle tense and ready, ignoring the cloud of gnats around his face, the mosquito buzzing in his ear. He swept the light in a semicircle around him as he walked, until turning to his right, he saw something that made him stop.

It was a carving in a tree trunk. One that looked almost exactly like the crocodile Ford carried in his cargo pants pocket. He focused the light on it and stared at it. It was not fresh. The curves and edges were worn, as grey-brown as the bark of the tree itself.

Eliot moved the light and saw something similar in another tree about ten feet behind that one, and he was just trying to make out what it was when he heard a noise behind him, and he whirled around.

Ford was standing there.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"What the hell are you doing?" Eliot demanded. He moved the halo of the flashlight down Ford's legs. "Are you walking barefoot in the jungle in the middle of the night? Jesus, Ford!"

"What are you doing?" he asked again.

"Nothing! I thought I heard something."

"What?"

"It . . . just . . . nevermind! Let's go," he said, and turned Ford by the elbow back towards camp.

As they started to go, he turned back around, to give one more look at the trees with their carved figures, but he didn't see them anymore. The trees were there, but he saw that what he thought were carvings were just natural knots and swirls in the wood.

He shook his head at himself. This place was getting to him, too.


	13. Chapter 12

_October 2004_  
_Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_Day 4_

A few hours before dawn, Eliot lay in his hammock, listening to the raucous sounds of the jungle. He had been dozing on and off, resting. Forcing himself to rest. His body needed it, not just physically, but mentally, too. The false sighting of carvings in trees had stirred something close to fear in him. Which made perfect sense, of course. There was nothing like physical exhaustion and the oppressive, claustrophobic surroundings of the jungle to give a guy a good case of the heebie-jeebies. But that was the last thing he needed right now.

He was in something close to a meditative state - awake but sublimely relaxed, his breathing deep and rhythmic - when he heard the tinny alarm on his watch. He hit a button on the side, and the cocoon of his hammock lit up in an icy blue glow. Four a.m. Time to get going. It was still dark, but they couldn't afford to sleep any longer, not with Ford slowing them down.

He unzipped himself and was immediately swarmed with gnats and mosquitoes. He waved at them and reapplied insect repellent before he did anything else. Then he got his waders on. Then he kicked Ford's hammock. "Let's go!"

Ford stirred a little but made no quick moves to get up, so Eliot did the only thing any rational person could be expected to do in that situation. He kicked him again. Harder.

Ford stirred a lot more at that.

"Uhhhh, fuuuuck!" he groaned, his voice dull and thick.

"Don't make me haul your ass outta there," Eliot warned and started pulling down his own hammock.

Ford grunted and laid still.

"I'm not fooling with you Ford," Eliot said as he rolled the hammock.

Ford heaved a sigh and laid still for a few seconds longer before he struggled his way upright, heaving his legs over the side of the hammock with another long, protesting groan. He stayed there, toes dangling against the ground, for what Eliot decided was an impertinently long period of time. He was about to really lay into him - about time being of the essence, about keeping their head start on Ventura - when he he looked up and caught sight of Ford's silhouette. Even in the darkness, he could make out the rounded slope of Ford's shoulders and the way his head hung low, and a sudden feeling of unease hit him.

He fished his flashlight out of the pack and shined it straight at Ford's eyes. Ford hissed at the brightness of it, but he raised a hand to shield himself, his actions were sluggish, and he was a chalky, ghostly shade of white. This was not office worker pale. This was sick pale.

"What's the matter with you?" Eliot demanded.

"I don't feel so good."

Which was exceedingly obvious.

Eliot stalked over and started checking him out from bottom to top, and even though Ford was out of it, he still managed an indignant, squawking "Hey!" when Eliot ran a hand straight up the inside of his leg to his crotch.

Eliot ignored him, moving his hand around quickly, examining Ford's legs, his waist, lifting his shirt and pushing him back to lie crosswise on the hammock while he ran the light across his torso. Then he stopped.

"There," Eliot said. "Right there."

"What?"

Eliot focused the light on a small red circle on Ford's side, high up on his rib cage, almost at the armpit.

He pressed on it, and Ford jerked in the hammock.

"Ow!"

"That. You got bit. By a spider it looks like."

Ford's eyebrows scrunched together at that. Then he half sat up, yanking his shirt hem from Eliot and tucking it under his chin, straining to get a look. His alarm was giving him a bit of pep. "Spider? What kind of spider?"

"How the hell should I know?"

Ford was appalled. "Well doesn't it have some kind of . . . . _distinctive something_?"

"I dunno. Some do. A lot of 'em just look the same." Eliot looked thoughtfully at the bite, poking at the skin around it. "It doesn't look lethal."

"Okay," Ford nodded, almost breathless. "Okay. That's good. Not lethal is good."

Ford struggled back into an upright position on the hammock, and Eliot stayed where he was, half-kneeling in front of him. He angled the flashlight straight up between them, so their features were lit from below, like they were a couple of kids telling ghost stories around a campfire.

"I'm guessing you'd be a helluva lot sicker if it was lethal."

"You're _guessing_?!"

Eliot shrugged. "Don't get crazy Ford. I'm sure it's . . . you know . . . fifty-fifty."

Ford gaped at him. Then he let himself collapse back in the hammock again, the bungee cord creaking against the tree trunks it was tied to. "Well, that's just great."

Ford's aggravation levels were definitely not that of a dying man, and Eliot couldn't quite resist poking at him.

(He was sure he wouldn't have teased the guy if he was dying.)

(Most likely.)

He angled the flashlight back at Ford's side and considering the area again. "You know, I'm sure it's better than fifty-fifty. I'm looking at this thing. Smallish. Contained. Skin's intact. I'm thinking your chances of not dying are . . . at least . . . . sixty-forty."

Nate threw his forearm over his face. "Now you're just fucking with me."

Eliot chuckled. "Maybe," he said, standing up.

He clicked off the flashlight and put it back in his pack. Then he finished rolling his hammock and packed it away, the sounds of the rustling nylon and Ford's heavy breathing tickling his ears under the sounds of the jungle. All fun aside, this was the last thing they needed. He was quite certain Ford wasn't going to be walking anywhere today, and the seriousness of that fact sank in like a heavy weight.

He was running through their options for the day when Ford rocked himself back upright and eased himself out of his hammock. "Give me that light, will you?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to shake out my shoes," he said, voice flat. "Then I'm going to put them on. And after that, I'm going to get dressed. And then you're going to lead me on a lovely walk in the jungle."

"You think you're ready for jungle walking?"

Eliot handed him the light, and Ford nearly toppled over when he bent at the waist to grab one of his boots. He righted himself, taking one unsteady step backwards before he got himself balanced again.

"I don't have much choice do I?" he asked. "We've got a deadline."

Eliot pulled out a fresh pair of socks and sock liners from his bag and tossed them to Ford, who promptly dropped them. Then, instead of leaning over to get them, he just let his knees buckle and landed heavily on his ass right next to them. He held the flashlight like a club in case he needed to kill anything that fell out of his shoes, but they were clear.

"Don't you think we're a little beyond the whole deadline thing?"

"No. I think we are exactly in the middle of the while _deadline thing_. I have to be back in L.A. by the twenty-seventh. No exceptions. This is exactly what I hired you to do."

"Fine," Eliot snapped. He was convinced that there might be nothing in his entire life that had ever been as irritating as Ford's stupid deadline. "You want to walk, you can walk. But I'm telling you right now. You pass out. You get really sick. Then Ventura's gonna be on us, man, and then your deadline's really gonna be shot to hell."

"I'm ready to walk. Are you?"

Eliot looked at him. The light had come up enough that he could see him without the flashlight, and he'd gotten his shoes and his clothes on, and he was standing there with the wet cargos and shirt hanging off of him, skin whitish, and he looked like he'd just finished a twenty mile jungle walk, not like he was about to start one. But he looked determined.

"Give me your pack," Eliot said.

Ford handed it over, and Eliot shortened the straps as far as they would go and threaded the straps of his own pack through it, before he stood and slid his bag and the piggy-back bag onto his shoulders.

Ford watched him and didn't argue. "Just, you know," he said wryly, "if I keel over dead, tell my family my last thoughts were of them."

Eliot let out an exasperated "ha" and pulled out his compass. He wondered what his chances were of making it through the next 16 hours without carrying all their gear and Nate Ford, too.

* * *

He could hear Ford's labored breathing behind him, and the occasional uncertain belch, and every mile or so, Ford'd stop abruptly and bend at the waist, hands on his thighs, and he'd vomit up anything in his stomach - which usually consisted of whatever water Eliot had forced him to drink and a little bile.

Then he'd stand upright again, wan and sweaty, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and announce. "I'm ready. Let's go."

It did not exactly fill Eliot with confidence.

By 10 a.m., he looked like he was ready to collapse, but he kept walking. By two, he looked like he was ready to die. But he kept walking.

At one point, Eliot looked back at him, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused, even as he walked. His jaw was slack enough that his lips were slightly parted, dried saliva crusting the corners of his mouth. He looked like he had managed to fall asleep with his eyes open and his feet moving. He looked like some kind of zombie.

Eliot actually felt bad for the guy.

* * *

"You know, I bet you got spider bit just so you wouldn't have to carry your pack."

They were halfway up a rocky hill, and Ford was on his hands and knees. Where he had apparently decided to take up residence for the time being.

He looked up at Eliot and muttered, with exceedingly deadpan alarm: "Oh no. You're on to me."

Eliot smirked.

He let Ford sway in his dog pose while he cut a few palm fronds and stripped the outer leaves. Then he held the tender heart of one out to Ford. "Chew on this when you're ready. It's got some water in it."

Ford looked up at it like it was a plate of entrails.

"I'm not giving it to you for my health, Ford. You gotta eat, and you gotta have fluids. Otherwise, you're just gonna fall over. You'll probably fall over anyway, but at least it may not be until after we make camp if you keep hydrated."

Ford shifted onto his haunches and took it. Then looked unhappily at it for another few seconds before he took the tiniest bite possible and started to chew.

Eliot knelt in front of him and pushed him back against the hillside. He lifted his shirt to take another look at the bite. It was dark red, and there was a wide circle of paler, pink-red around it, like a halo, but it wasn't open, and it wasn't weeping, and the skin around it wasn't breaking down - all good signs.

But Ford was still pale, and flushed, too; his skin radiated fever against Eliot's fingertips. Probably joint aches, headache, muscle aches - like a very bad case of the flu.

Eliot let him rest for twenty minutes, and if Ford knew he was doubling their break time, he didn't mention it.

They'd been walking again for exactly five minutes when Ford lurched to the side and lost all the palm he'd eaten.

When he stood up, he took the water bottle Eliot offered. He rinsed out his mouth and spit. "Okay, palm? Not pleasant to puke up."

"Sorry man. I'm just trying to get us to the next camp."

And he actually was sorry. In the kitchen with the FARC, he'd felt guilty, ashamed of his role in getting Ford nabbed. But now he was genuinely sorry to see Nate Ford suffering. And when he realized that, he was stunned. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt anything close to sympathy for someone he worked for.

* * *

It was still two hours before dusk when Eliot decided that they had to stop for the night.

It was the law of diminishing returns. Ford was stumbling as much as he was walking, now. If they stopped, the extra rest might help him recuperate enough that they could pick up the pace for tomorrow. If they kept at it, they probably wouldn't make much progress, and it could kill their chances of picking up ground the next day.

When they reached a decent clearing, Eliot shrugged out of his pack. "We're gonna stop here for the night."

Ford stopped, his shoulders - whole upper body - rising and falling with his heaving breaths. He looked around the clearing, and then up at the sky. "It's still daylight."

"Nothing gets past you."

Ford ignored the sarcasm - or was too exhausted and sick to care. "We've still got light. We should press on."

"If you saw what I was looking at . . ." Eliot trailed off, shaking his head.

"I'm fine," Ford said sharply, glaring as much as he was able. "We've still got light. We should press on. Don't forget about the -"

Eliot held up his hand. "Don't you fucking say it! What is it with you and this deadline? What? You gonna get a new company car? The corner office? Some bonus?"

Ford stood silent for a moment, a confused look on his face as he tried to process Eliot's accusation. Then he started laughing - a weak, tittering laugh that bordered on hysterical.

"You think this is about a corner office? Or a car?"

"Well what the hell else am I supposed to think?"

"I set the deadline, because I have to be in L.A. by the twenty-seventh. Not because of some office or some car or some bonus. It has nothing to do with work."

"Well what then?"

They stared at each other - in standoff mode - for a good minute before Ford heaved a sigh.

"It's my son's birthday."

Eliot nearly fell over. Visions of Ford and his wife standing by their pool dressed like something out of _The Great Gatsby_ came to mind. People in seersucker and chiffon, surrounded by lavish decorations and a clown and ponies and kids running around and a table full of very large and too-extravagant gifts.

In that moment, he was so apoplectic that all he could do was stand and point.

"You're- . . .you . . . goddamn it!" Then, when he finally found his voice: "You're puttin' me through the ringer over a freakin' kid's birthday party?"

Ford stood there, impassive, but sharpness flickered in his eyes for the first time all day.

"No," he said simply. "It's not about a party. It's not about a cake. It's not about presents or guests. I don't care about any of that. This deadline is about one thing. My son. _Sam_. I made a promise to him that I would be there on the day he turned five. And I intend to keep that promise."

And Ford spoke with such a _that's-the-end-it_ certainty that Eliot suddenly felt ashamed. Ashamed for raising the question. Ashamed at assuming such a shallow answer. He put his hands on his hips and stared at Ford, at Ford, trying very hard not to let it show that he felt like he was a child who'd just been scolded by his own father.

Ford, meanwhile, seemed to have suddenly found a second wind. He was surprisingly intense and determined.

"Alright," Eliot finally said, his own voice soft. "We'll keep walking."

He took a quick sip of water before he pulled the double pack back on. Then he turned and started for the underbrush as Ford's uneven footsteps started up behind him. He didn't tell Ford that this was the only deadline anyone had ever given him over a kid's birthday.

He didn't tell him that it might be the best reason for a deadline that he'd ever heard.

* * *

That night, Eliot set up his zippered bug-free hammock and ordered Ford to get into it. The last thing he needed was for the man to get any more bites. The way their luck was going, it would be something lethal the next time.

Ford said nothing. His second wind had blown away and left him deflated somewhere during their last leg. While Eliot was stringing up the hammock, he'd flopped onto the ground and sat there hunched over, looking boneless. But when Eliot turned to fish the tarp out of Ford's pack, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Ford shuffling past him, dragging his feet, and again Eliot was reminded of a zombie.

Ford collapsed into the hammock and passed out almost immediately, wet clothes and shoes still on. He hadn't even bothered to zip it up.

Eliot sighed and unrolled the tarp. He strung it up and arranged the camp the way he wanted it. He did one last check of the periphery. Then he stood over Ford, asleep in his hammock.

He pulled the man's boots and frowned. His socks were wet with water and sweat and blood. He pulled those off and examined Ford's feet. The older blisters on his heels and toes and the balls of his feet were open and bloody, and there were fresh, new ones on his heels and across the tops of his toes and along the bony nubs on the sides his feet, and all those were open and weeping, too.

Eliot went to his bag. He wasn't one to waste pack space on a lot of first aid, and when he did, he saved those supplies for only the most dire of situations. This was not exactly life threatening, but it was dire enough.

He dried Ford's feet and applied antiseptic. Then he folded his last spare shirt and placed them under his feet in the hammock. Bandages would be worthless in the wet conditions - the minute he got the wet shoes on and stepped in a stream or a puddle, they'd just contribute to the problem, but Eliot could at least get them dry tonight and keep them from getting infected.

Then he zipped Nate up in his hammock and went to the tarp.

He could feel his own exhaustion creeping in. He needed sleep, needed to recharge, needed to be ready. Who knew what their next day would bring.


	14. Chapter 13

_Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_October 2004_  
_Day 5_

The next morning, Eliot let Nate sleep until dawn while he scaled a tree. It was time for some better perspective.

He changed into his spare pants so he could use the old pair for climbing gear. He twisted and knotted the old ones so they looked like a thick length of rope. Then he slung them around a thick tree trunk, going up lumberjack-style, one end of "rope" in each hand, the insteps of his feet pressed hard against the bark.

_Spikes are for pussies_, he grinned to himself as he clambered up.

Once he got above the dense underbrush, he took a few deep breaths. There was a palpable feeling of relief - like he was crawling out of a tunnel he'd been trapped in for years. The air was less humid, the noise softer. Everything felt better.

And then, as he neared the top and stared north and a little west, he finally - _finally_ - saw the river.

He took another deep breath and tried to keep the sudden rush of optimism under wraps. It was a good sign, yes. But they still had one full day of hiking. More likely, a day and a half, and that was going to cut them awfully close on catching the last plane of the day out of San Jose del Guaviare.

And if Nate didn't catch that, there was no way he was making his deadline.

Eiot scanned the rest of the area and saw no signs of movement, no signs of danger, but that was no guarantee of anything. The FARC would camp at night and they would burn a fire until morning to ward off insects and animals - unless they knew they were close. So either he and Nate still had a good lead or they bad guys were closing in and they knew it.

On their first full day in the jungle, "good lead" seemed plausible. Now, on the third, it seemed a lot more like wishful thinking.

When he got back down, he unzipped Nate's hammock. "Up and at 'em, Sunshine."

Nate was laying on his back, forearms crossed over his chest, and with his chalky skin and his hair slicked with sweat, he'd gone from looking like a zombie to looking like a vampire. A very sickly vampire. When the sound of the zipper hit him, his eyes flew open, but he remained in his death-like pose, body still. Then he saw Eliot and rolled his eyes back in his head and closed them again. "Uhh."

"My thoughts exactly," Eliot said. Then he patted the side of the hammock. "Now let's go."

Nate took a deep breath and pulled himself slowly into a sitting position, squinting and blinking, rubbing a hand over his face. He didn't look flushed with fever, and he wasn't as boneless as he had been the evening before. But he wasn't all rainbows and sparkles either.

He glared over at Eliot, expression pained and, also, pretty darned pissed. He clearly was not happy about being up and at 'em.

"What are you so perky about?" he grumbled.

Eliot raised an eyebrow and decided immediately that it would be better to keep his concerns about the FARC to himself.

"I'm just rarin' to go," he smiled and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "We got the river in the distance. We're in the home stretch, bubba."

Nate squinted at him, skeptical. "Yeah? How much further?"

"Til' San Jose? Thirty miles. Give or take."

Ford blew a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out, and it wasn't clear whether he was relieved about how much ground they'd covered or depressed about how much they still had to go.

Eliot handed him a water bottle, and when Nate took it without looking up, Eliot decided that it was definitely more depression than relief.

Over the course of their little adventure, Eliot had been the muscle and the jungle guide and the nurse. Now Ford's mood was triggering his cheerleader instincts.

"Come on, man," Eliot said, clapping him on the back, pleasant memories of military camaraderie in his head. The way guys would pick each other up when they were down. "We can do that in a day. Easy."

Ford stared blankly at the water bottle, shoulders slumped, and for a brief, quiet moment, it was not at all clear that he was not about to actually _give up_. But then he took a deep breath and schooled his features into a mask of determination. He took a deep swig from the water bottle and swung his legs over the side of the hammock.

"That's it," Eliot told him, and gave a clap. "Let's fucking get this thing done!"

Nate hobbled over to his shoes, and Eliot added with a smirk: "Just try not to get yourself bit by anything else. Or eaten."

Ford focused on shaking out his shoes and easing himself onto the ground to pull them on. Then, as he was just about to pull on a sock, something occurred to him. "Wait. Did you say eaten?"

Eliot shrugged. "Did I?"

Ford narrowed his eyes - for a second, Eliot almost had him with that one - then he gave the other man a sardonic glare. "You know I hate you, right?"

"Mutual," Eliot smiled. "Totally mutual."

* * *

Eliot was pleased with their progress. Nate was keeping down water, and even with the exhaustion and the aching and the blisters, he was moving at a significantly better pace than the day before.

At their first break of the morning, his hands shook a little when he fumbled with the cap on his water bottle, and Eliot thought he looked at least a little bit faint, but he never complained, and it was he who called the end to their break. At the nine minute mark. One minute early.

Any doubt he had conveyed when he first woke up was gone. Now he was well and truly fixed on his goal.

_He's possessed, _Eliot decided, watching him. The man was absolutely possessed with determination. Eliot found the single-mindedness admirable and surprising and just a little bit unsettling. It definitely was not normal. When Jacques had called him the Insurance Terminator, Eliot had scoffed. He'd kept scoffing, too. But after the last few days, Eliot suddenly understood the nickname, and he could understand that your average art thief or insurance scammer would be more than a little intimidated at being the subject of that laser-sharp determination.

* * *

They were just over two hours in when Eliot heard a noise he didn't like. Beneath the birds and the monkeys and the clean sound of branches moving overhead: the heavy, flat-footed sound of dried leaves rustling on the jungle floor.

He stopped dead, listening.

Behind him, Nate pulled up, too. "What is it?" He asked, way too loud.

Eliot held up a hand to shush him. It was human nature to look when you thought there might be a threat. Eliot didn't bother to look. He was _listening_.

And then he heard it. Underneath the noises of the insects and birds.

The metallic springing sound from the bolt of an assault rifle being pulled.

Eliot whirled and dove at Nate, just as the first gunshot cracked through the air.

A bullet struck a tree close enough to Nate's head that Eliot could see the splinters pelting his neck and ear. Eliot grabbed him by the shoulders and started moving backwards, belly pressed on the ground, dragging Ford with him.

"Let's go! Let's go!"

A quick scan showed him an almost redwood-sized tree with thick, long roots in the distance, and he yanked Ford up and pushed him towards it, bullets cracking into trees and whizzing by in the air around them.

They made it behind the shelter without any serious injuries, but Eliot had had to abandon his machete to drag Ford by both hands, and the gunman kept firing, one round after the other. He didn't seem to be thinking about stopping either, despite the fact that Eliot and Ford were well-protected. The shots kept coming, quickly -

_Mechanically_, Eliot thought.

Which meant one thing.

_Decoy._

Eliot pushed Nate between two thick roots and threw the packs on top of him. He turned around just in time to see a rifle barrel edging from behind a another tree. He lunged for it. He grabbed the barrel just behind the sight tab and pulled it hard - bringing the FARC guy with it.

It was funny how human instinct could go so wrong.

In that second, the FARC guy would have been better off letting go of the gun and attacking Eliot by hand while he was still holding the rifle by the barrel. But of course the FARC guy didn't. Once you used a gun - really used it - it was hard to let it go. The gun was life. And so when someone tried to pull that gun away from you? Well of course you held on tighter.

Except in this case, that meant being pulled straight into Eliot Spencer's fist.

The guy let go of the gun then. He dropped like a stone as soon as Eliot's fist connected with his jaw. Then Eliot pitched the rifle hard against the tree, breaking it in two.

The FARC guy wasn't done, though - only stunned. He kicked out at Eliot from the ground, catching just enough of his calf to put Eliot off-balance, and when he stumbled, the FARC guy leaped up.

They tangled, wrestling, and even as the guy wrapped himself around Eliot like a python, a voice of warning cried out in the back of the head. The other guy wasn't firing anymore.

"Jesus," he grunted, digging his fingers into a pressure point behind the guy's collar bone. "Fuck!"

The guy wailed and started to loosen his hold, and Eliot looked towards Nate. He had gotten himself out from under the packs and was watching Eliot's fight with a rock in his hand, as if he were going to leap in there and participate if necessary.

_Isn't that cute_, Eliot thought on one level, his natural smartass instincts unable to overlook how ludicrous it was that Nate thought he was going to do anything but get in the way.

On the other level, every alarm bell in his head was going off, because the other gunman was coming up behind Ford, holding the machete.

"Nate!" He yelled, but even as he did, he knew he had no time. He couldn't stop the machete guy before he attacked.

Ford cocked his head a little when he heard his name, like a confused pup. Then his eyes went wide, and he whirled to see what Eliot was looking at.

(Eliot could only imagine how wide his eyes went when he saw a guy standing over him with a machete.)

Then Eliot heard a _thhpt_.

The man with the machete froze like a statue with his arm raised over his head. Then he fell forward like a tree going down - rigid and straight - hitting the ground face down at Nate's feet.

A long, thin dart was sticking out of the back of his neck.

When the other FARC guy saw that, he disentangled himself from Eliot and started to run, an awkward, panting, panicky run.

The guy made it about ten feet before there was another_ thhpt_, and a dart landed in the side of his neck, just beneath his jaw. He reached up to grab it, but just as his fingertips brushed against the thin wood, he collapsed.

As Eliot and Nate stared at the bodies, men started to emerge from the underbrush. Not like they were hiding behind anything, but like they were transforming from the very underbrush itself into men.

There were over a dozen of them, barefoot. Some wore loincloths, but a couple wore shorts they must have found. (Or if the FARC men lying on the ground were any indication, perhaps taken.) Their chests and arms and faces were painted a rusty orange-brown, and they were all carrying homemade blow-dart guns or spears.

Nate stood slowly, and Eliot narrowed the distance between them, so they were shoulder to shoulder.

"Is this a good thing or a bad thing?" Nate whispered to him, as the men slowly moved in, cautiously surrounding them.

Eliot looked at the FARC men. The one he'd been fighting was laying motionless on his back, arms spread across the ground, eyes wide open.

"Well, we're not dead yet."


	15. Chapter 14

_Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_October 2004_  
_Day 5_

From what Eliot could tell, it was a case of "the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

The tribesmen weren't overly threatening or overly welcoming to he and Nate, but they clearly hated the FARC. Even Eliot had turned away when they started taking care of the bodies, which entailed stripping the FARC men, taking all of their possessions and then making the bodies . . . easier to dispose of.

They kept Eliot and Nate herded together, sitting on the jungle floor until they were ready to move, and then the two of them were ushered through the jungle - due west, which was not the right direction for them to be heading in at all.

"Just be cool," Eliot said in a low voice to Nate, who was clearly anxious about the fact that they might be losing time.

* * *

It was still morning when they made the tribe's camp - a dozen or so rounded, thatch-roofed huts in a large clearing near a tributary to the river. A few fires were burning, and Eliot had the smell of smoke in his nostrils before he saw the first woman kneeling over a pot or the first child playing near the water.

When the first people they passed saw Nate and Eliot, a chatter rose up that spread quickly through the small village. More women and children started coming out of huts and out of the trees to gape at them. Like the men, they were in various types of dress - some wearing western clothes, some wearing loin cloths around their waists and many of the children wearing nothing at all.

One of the men in the attack party stepped forward and spoke to them. He waved back towards the jungle in the direction they'd come from, and looks of concern and alarm spread over the faces of the women he spoke to. Eliot assumed he must be talking about the FARC. Then he pointed to Nate and Eliot and spoke some more.

When he was done, the women nodded, and beckoned at Nate and Eliot to follow them. They led them to an area downstream in the tributary, where the water was a couple of feet deep, and they urged them to get in.

They gave them sticky, coarse leaves and pantomimed rubbing the leaves on their bodies. One of them waved her hand in front of her nose and made a face.

"You think they're trying to tell us something," Eliot said, wryly.

"Are we . . . what? We're just supposed to strip right in front of them?" Nate asked, mortified.

Eliot pulled his shirt off. "What, you too shy?" Eliot asked, and he smiled at the women, rolling his shoulders a little, flexing his pectorals.

They giggled.

Nate rolled his eyes.

Eliot kept smiling and pulled off his shoes. He set them on the ground next to a large rock and pulled off his pants and his underwear without a hint of modesty, taking his time to carefully fold them and place them on top of the rock.

Nate watched him (but not too closely), his face pinched in consternation. Eliot had put him in a lose-lose situation: he could either strip and be embarrassed or not strip and be embarrassed. Either way, his immediate future promised shame and a healthy dose of it. He was mulling his options when Eliot took a handful of leaves from one of the women with a polite "thank you" and sauntered into the water, giving him a smirk as he went.

Then he groaned and started unbuttoning his shirt.

The women were clearly entertained at having two white men standing in front of them in various stages of undress. After Nate got his shirt off, one of them moved over to him, stretching her dark-skinned forearm in front of his very pale torso for the others to see. They all nodded, amazed at the contrast. When she went back to stand with the other women, she pointed to her eyes and then to the sky, and the women all chattered.

"I think she's got a crush on you," Eliot said. "She likes your eyes."

Nate scowled, dismissive, but he blushed, too.

Then he tip-toed into the water next to Eliot, who was already rubbing the leaves over his skin like a washcloth. As he did, the leaves let off a sharp, clean smell, almost like pine, and the rough surface scrubbed the filth off of him. Eliot had to admit, it was actually pretty refreshing.

One of the younger women was gazing at him, mischievous and shy all at once, and Eliot stared her way, giving her one of his own patented _yeah, I'm interested_ looks.

"Tell me you're not hitting on a native girl in the middle of the jungle," Nate murmured.

Eliot rubbed a leaf over his chest and kept smiling at the girl, ignoring Nate.

"You know her father's gonna shoot you with a poisoned dart, right?"

Eliot gave him a sarcastic little laugh, as if to say _whatever_.

But then he reined in the flirting.

Ford had a good point.

He dipped his handful of leaves into the water and then rubbed them over his stomach, and in studiously looking away from the girl, he caught sight of Nate out of the corner of his eye, wincing as he pressed the leaves in the area around his left shoulder joint. It drew his attention - he wouldn't be surprised if that pressure move back in the open-air kitchen had torn something - but when he looked at the man more closely he saw something new in the area that he had not seen before. Nate had a puckering of scar tissue near his clavicle, where the deltoid and the pectoral muscles came together. A very distinctive puckering.

_Huhn,_ Eliot thought. Ford, at some point in his life, had been shot. From the looks of it, not all that long ago.

"What?" Nate asked, noticing his gaze.

"You get that on the job?" Eliot asked lifting his foot onto a rock so he could wash his knee and calf.

"What? Oh yeah. Yeah . . . " Ford's nodded, and his eyes drifted off at the memory of it, and Eliot could have sworn he saw the faintest hint of a smile there.

Which was not exactly Eliot's response whenever he thought of any of his own gunshot wounds.

"Must've been a helluva an interesting situation," Eliot said, changing legs and nodding at the women as they giggled at him.

"Yeah," Nate said, and then he did smile - an enigmatic little smile - as he looked at Eliot. "Maybe I'll tell you about it one day."

* * *

After their bath, the women led them to an open-sided hut and let them get into dry t-shirts and skivvies. They cleaned Nate's bare feet with water from a dried-out, gourd-like container and they covered his blisters with a honey-colored sap that dried into a kind of second skin. Then they used the same goop on his bug bites, and Eliot's too.

When they brought food - some kind of charred meat and taro root pressed into a paste and fruit - Nate said to Eliot in a low voice, "We don't have time for native hospitality."

"Remember the poisoned darts," Eliot mumbled, using the flat, wooden utensil they'd given him to scoop up some taro root.

Nate stared at him, frustrated. Then he looked at the handful of women who were sitting and standing around them. One of them made a gesture, urging him to eat.

Nate sighed and picked up a piece of meat. He held it up for her - _see, I'm doing it!_ - and put it in his mouth, chewing carefully. Then he scooped up a few bites of taro root and more meat, while the woman smiled. Eliot nodded. He was pleased, too, to see the man eating and holding something down. He hadn't had anything more than water and a few small pieces of palm heart for the better part of 36 hours. Eliot himself had been living off fruit and insects and grubs, so he was more than happy to get some cooked food - even if there was no telling what they had killed to get the chewy, stringy meat he was gnawing on.

As they were finishing their meal, a group of men came around, bringing a gourd of fermented juice with them. The women rose and left and the men sat on the dirt floor of the hut. Then they started passing the gourd around.

Each one of them drank from it, talking amongst themselves, until it finally made its way through their group, and they passed it to Nate. He took it with a nervous smile, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh look, I get the gourd . . . wow, yeah. That looks . . . great. Smells . . . whew."

Eliot fought the urge to cuff the man on the back of the head. "Just drink the fucking juice!" He whispered harshly, smiling through clenched teeth at the tribesmen.

Nate took a tentative sip, and one of the men raised his hand, encouraging Nate to drink more.

Nate smiled at them. Then he took a deep breath. Then he took a deep drink. He tilted his head back, lifting the gourd as he went, his Adam's apple bobbing with one, two, three long swallows.

Eliot raised his eyebrows. The man must have been a god at college keggers.

After the third swallow, Nate lowered the gourd with dramatic flourish, blue eyes swimming, his face bright red. The room erupted in cheers as he wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. The men whooped and laughed and clapped him on the back, while Ford sat there, with his lips pressed tight together, like he wasn't so sure that juice was going to stay where he'd put it.

"How was it," Eliot asked in a low voice, once the room had settled down.

Nate opened his mouth, taking a deep breath, before he turned to Eliot, an evil glint in his eye. "Oh," he said, passing him the gourd. "Oh, you'll see."

* * *

Eliot had nearly gagged on his first swallow of the juice - it was pungent and sickly sweet-sour and highly fermented. The stuff packed a kick. But if Ford could drink it, he sure as hell could.

There was an easy air about the room as they drank, and Eliot used his finger to draw the river in the dirt, a long, groove that stretched and curved. Then he used the tip of one fingernail to draw the thinner tributary that they were camped by.

The men watched with interest, and when Eliot drew 12 triangles to represent the huts that made up the camp, the men began nod and talk.

Eliot pulled two buttons from the cuff of his hiking shirt and placed those near the huts and pointed at he and Nate. He drew circles and pointed at the men. Then He drew two Xs to represent the FARC guys, and he pantomimed being hit in the neck and falling over.

The men laughed, but the friendly fraternity was gone from it. This laugh had an unsettling maliciousness, and one of the men pantomimed the dart attack again, showing once again how they had finished off the FARC men. They clearly reveled in the demise.

Another man spoke up, though, chastising the display. He pointed to the two Xs, and he said something stern to his fellow tribesmen.

Then he started to draw more Xs.

These were further from the village, further from the place where the FARC had ambushed them, in an area that would be south east of where they were now. He drew X after X until there was a cluster of 20.

"Shit," Ford breathed.

Eliot nodded grimly. "Those two guys were just an advance party."


	16. Chapter 15

_Guaviare Department, Colombia_  
_October 2004_  
_Day 5_

Using the Xs drawn in the dirt and the two buttons for themselves, Nate and Eliot were able to show the tribesmen that the FARC were coming for them, and the tribesmen didn't need them to draw anything more after that - the looks on their faces told Nate and Eliot that they were not interested in being in the middle of that particular dispute. Two FARC guys in their territory was one thing. Twenty on the rampage with guns was quite another.

And just like that, all the juice-fueled jovial air was sucked out of the room.

They sat in their circle on the dirt floor, and Eliot was measuring in his head how far they could hike in the remaining daylight when Nate stood up stiffly and gingerly walked to the edge of the hut. He waved over the _de facto_ leader of the tribe, the one who had pointed out the FARC group in the distance. Then he motioned towards the water's edge, where a half dozen long, wooden canoes rested half in and half out of the water.

He smiled and raised his eyebrows at the leader, and his face clearly conveyed the universal look for_ trade you?_ even before he spoke. "How much for a canoe?"

The man looked at the canoes Nate was now pointing at. Then he looked at Nate. He looked back to the ground at Eliot, and Eliot raised his eyebrows, too. _Well?_ Then the man's eyes drifted to the place just outside the hut where the pile of their gear lay. Then he looked back to Nate, and a slow, crafty smile came over his face as he looked down at the polished steel watch on the man's wrist.

* * *

"That was a gift from my wife, you know," Nate grumbled, as he pulled his still-damp pants from a tree limb near the hut. His wrist now bare except for the imprint from the watch links that was fast fading from his skin. "That was a TAG Heuer you know. Do you have any idea how much that watch cost?"

"If that canoe gets us to San Jose del Guaviare in one piece," Eliot said with raised eyebrows, "not nearly enough."

Nate sighed. That was true enough.

Eliot pulled his own pants and shirt from a limb, and he had to admit that he could have gotten used to the native hospitality. Sitting around a hut eating and drinking in dry clothes had been a nice relief from the huffing and puffing and sweating in clothes that chafed against them like wet burlap.

Ford had a grim look on his face, too, although Eliot wasn't sure if it was from pulling on wet clothes (the wet socks in particular) or the time they'd lost towards making their deadline.

When they had gotten dressed, the tribe saw them off. The canoe had been packed with their bags and Eliot's machete while they dressed, and Eliot was touched to see that they'd also loaded it with a woven basket packed with fruit and more of the taro root paste wrapped in palm leaf bundles.

The women and children came to see them off, too, and the shy-flirty girl from the bathing hole smiled at Eliot.

"Too bad," Eliot said in a low voice, filled with exaggerated wistfulness. "We could have been great together."

"Yeah, you and her and her dad and a poisoned dart. The perfect combination."

Eliot chuckled, and stepped into the water, getting ready to push off in the canoe.

Nate climbed in and moved to the front as Eliot held the rear.

As Eliot was preparing to push off, the leader left the group to step closer to him, pointing down the tributary. He started to pantomime something with his hands when he glanced over at Nate, who had taken the crocodile from his cargo pocket to re-adjust its position. The second he saw it, the leader's eyes widened in alarm, and he took a quick, sharp step away from Eliot, yelling and pointing at it.

Eliot and Nate looked at each other, confused, and then the other men saw it, and they started yelling too. The leader waved his hand at them, angry, urging them to go.

"Put that thing away," Eliot said, pushing off and hopping into the canoe while trying to smile at the men reassuringly. Eliot started paddling. Hard.

They were maybe twenty feet from shore, when one of the men threw a rock that sailed just past the hull of the canoe and landed in the water with a _plunk_.

"Shit!" Ford said, tucking the crocodile away and grabbing a paddle himself.

They broadened the distance between themselves and the shore as the tribesmen stood on the bank waving them away, yelling and screaming, throwing the occasional rock. Then one shot an arrow towards them. It was tipless - a warning - but it landed right between them, thumping into the middle of their basket of fruit. They paddled harder.

When they were at least a half mile away, Ford pulled his paddle out of the water and turned to look back at Eliot. They took a deep breath together.

"What was that all about?" Nate asked.

"Beats the hell out of me."

* * *

The tributary flowed into the river. The murky brown water gradually turned to something that seemed cleaner but darker, too. It was wide and smooth and almost black, but they were moving with the current, and if they could stay on the river, Eliot figured that they might actually make it to San Jose del Guaviare before nightfall.

They were going to make that damn deadline after all.

Ford dozed in the hull of the boat now, his forearm flung over his eyes and his feet propped up on his pack. After the first hour of heavy paddling, he'd gone deathly pale and leaned over the side of the boat to vomit, little tremors shaking his fingertips as he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Eliot had ordered him to take a break then. He still wasn't recovered from his spider bite flu, and between that and the hard physical exertion - not to mention an awful lot of fermented juice - it was clearly a case of all systems in shut down. Better for him to rest now and be rarin' to go in San Jose.

He had to admit, too, it was kind of nice to have the afternoon to himself, hard-paddling the canoe through the still waters. It was nice to be out of the woods. It was nice to not be walking. It was peaceful.

(He could almost forget that they were traveling through the jungle because they were going to die if they didn't.)

He thought about Nate and his family by their pool, under the California sky, and for the first time, that image in his head brought no bitterness, no anger, no shame, and Eliot realized something.

If he'd hated Nate in the beginning, if that snapshot of Nate's life had filled him with rage, it was only because it put a mirror to his own failings, to the things he could have become if he'd taken a different path at any number of crossroads in his life.

It was a hard thing to take so many wrong paths.

It was an even harder thing to get back on the right one.

Eliot took a deep breath and stared at the jungle going by on either side of them. The endless canopy that blocked light and air; that trapped the world underneath it in decay and rot. He couldn't articulate how happy - how relieved - he would be if they never had to set another foot in that place.

He was brought out of his reverie by the sensation of increased speed. His brow creased as he strained his ears, listening.

"What?"

Nate's voice surprised him.

The insurance man was awake, although it seemed like a near thing. He was laying as he had been in sleep - one arm still flung over his brow, his chin tucked in. His voice was rough, and beneath the cover of his arm, his eyes were open only a sliver, but Eliot could see them enough to see that Nate was looking over the toes of his boots right at Eliot, and there was a piercing alertness in those eyes.

Eliot wondered how long Ford had been watching him, and in the back of his mind, that panic flared again - that Ford had seen something revealing, that Ford knew something about him he didn't want anyone to know.

He pushed it away and looked upriver as he spoke. "Rough water coming."

* * *

The river - which had run for miles at fifty feet wide - was narrowing. The current was pulling them towards a faint rushing-water sound in the distance. The shore was getting rockier, too, and large boulders began appearing in the water.

They could just bank it, Eliot knew, give up on river travel altogether, but then they'd be walking again in that godawful jungle with Ventura and his men in close pursuit, and the idea of that seemed almost too awful to bear. They could bank it, and he could scout the white water, but that could add hours and what if they decided to walk anyway after all that time?

Then there was the last alternative. They could try to shoot it.

(Which a voice in his head may or may not have been screaming was suicide.)

It would be dangerous going into rapids blind, but what the hell about this trip wasn't dangerous? And if they made it. _If_ . . . the thought of boarding the last flight out of San Jose to Bogota before the sun set on their fifth day was very appealing indeed.

"What do you think, Nate? High risk, high reward? Or . . . get to walking."

Nate looked at choppiness that was just starting to come up in the water and spoke without a moment's hesitation.

"I'll take the risk."

(Out of which Eliot learned a lesson that would repeat itself often in his life: if you want a reasonable answer to the question of whether to take the riskiest, craziest, most we're-all-gonna-die-soon approach to a problem? Don't ask Nate Ford.)

* * *

**A/N: So, they're going to shoot the rapids. How do you think that's going to go? ;) Thanks for all the reviews thus far. I'm glad you all are enjoying it! ****  
**


	17. Chapter 16

_Guaviare Department, Colombia  
__October 2004  
__Day 5_

They were being pulled straight into a bottleneck, a narrow, fifteen foot opening between two boulders.

The river that had been so calm and wide an hour earlier felt like some living, sinister thing now, tugging at them, funneling them straight into . . . what? The riverbank on both sides was so steep and the boulders so large, that they couldn't see anything beyond that point. But there was an intense roar. Eliot was yelling instructions at the top of his lungs to Nate, and he could barely hear himself, and he didn't want to think about the kind of white water monster that must be on the other side of those boulders waiting for them.

He was starting to have some serious doubts about the high risk-high reward strategy, but there was no turning back now.

They paddled hard and fast into the bottleneck, and for a brief moment, it felt like they were suspended in air, no water splashing over them, no crashing waves. Then Eliot's stomach flip-flopped as they fell, the canoe plummeting straight down -nose first - into a churning, foaming whirlpool at the bottom of the small waterfall they'd just descended.

Eliot watched Nate and the front of the canoe disappear under the water, and then he was surrounded by water, too. They went under and popped up like a cork - Nate, Eliot, canoe and all. But any relief Eliot felt at being out of the water was short lived. The waves and currents started whipping them around violently, like a dog shaking a chew toy.

Nate in the front of the canoe was paddling hard, following the instructions Eliot had given him earlier, and Eliot was working hard, too, but it seemed to have no impact whatsoever. They were at the mercy of the currents. The back end of the canoe swung around, and both canoe and Eliot's head collided against a boulder, and there was a loud cracking sound, like a quick clap of thunder, and for a few bleary seconds Eliot wondered _Did my head just make that noise?_

Then they were both in the water.

Eliot reached for where he thought Nate would be, but there were only a million tiny bubbles swirling around his open hand. It was like being stuck in a washing machine, jerked back and forth, pressed down towards the bottom. His eyes were open, but he could only see white, churning water. There was water in his nose, water in his eyes, and his lungs were tight, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not break himself free of the swirl.

He kicked and waved his arms, and when his foot caught on something, excitement surged through him. _Yes!_ Finally, something he could use for some leverage. He pressed down, hard, but instead of meeting solid rock and kicking himself upward, his foot sank between two rocks and held him there.

His lungs were straining, and the current suddenly seemed to shift, pushing him forward and down, so that his knee locked up and then went backwards, in exactly the direction a knee was not supposed to go. A long burning feeling shot through his leg, like something tearing.

He instinctively opened his mouth to curse, and water surged in. He almost panicked. _Be calm, be calm!_ he told himself, but his heart was racing.

He couldn't get the foot free, and the water was thrashing him around too much; he wanted to bend at the waist and use his hands to help free his foot, but he couldn't do it.

Then it dawned on him. He was going to drown.

He was just processing that thought when he felt something solid and rough against his chest - one of the long oars from the canoe. He grabbed it and pulled and it held fast; it was anchored by something. He pulled on it with both hands while kicked furiously with his free foot.

With the last of his breath, he gave a furious yank on his wedged-in foot. There was a raw burning in his ankle, and a sharp pain in his knee, and he was free.

He broke the surface gasping for air.

He was surrounded by churning water, and as he blinked his eyes clear, he saw that he was directly in front of a flat-topped boulder, and on top of the boulder, lying on his belly, staring straight at him, was Nathan Ford. Nate was soaking wet, his hair dripping and plastered in odd directions, and just as Eliot held one end of the oar tight, both of Nate's arms were outstretched, holding fast to the other. And he was grinning.

_Sonofafuckingbitch._

* * *

After Nate reeled him in and they struggled him up onto the boulder, Eliot collapsed onto his back, and Nate followed suit. Then they lay there for a long time, staring at the sky and breathing hard, water from their clothes and their bodies pooling around them on the flat rock. The river roared past them, the spray from the rapids arcing above them and pelting them like rain.

Nate had gotten lucky, Eliot knew. He'd probably been spit out of the white water pretty close to the rock they were laying on, while Eliot had gotten sucked into a churning, hungry swirl, the kind that even experienced paddlers feared and sometimes drowned in. Nate had managed to find an oar and haul him out of there, though, so maybe he'd been lucky in his own way, too.

Eliot sighed and heaved himself upright - and then quickly shut his eyes against a wave of dizziness. When he opened them again, Ford was looking at him, eyebrows creased with concern.

"I'll live," Eliot grumbled, even though he knew Nate couldn't hear him over the rushing water. Ford was still on his back, rocking the drowned rat look and still clutching that oar, and Eliot couldn't help but smirk.

"C'mon," he said, and gestured Nate to stand. "Let's get going."

* * *

Nate seemed to have escaped their swim in the washing machine without any serious injuries, but he'd tweaked his bad arm pulling Eliot from the water, and now he could barely lift it. Eliot's ankle bled where the rocks had gouged it, and his head hurt, but the knee was the worst. He told himself it was just a sprain, but it was stiffening up on him, and it was wobbly, like his thigh and his calf were going to go in two different directions at any moment.

Still, he forced himself to walk. They followed the shore for hundreds of yards, looking for the things from the canoe, but they found nothing. They'd lost everything in the water - the food, the machete, both of their packs. The only thing they had were the clothes on their backs, the oar Ford had grabbed and that goddamn crocodile, which had remained safely tucked in Nate's pants pocket.

And they still had around fifteen miles to go, which was more than they could hike in the daylight they had left.

And as the reality of the set in, they stopped walking and stood in silence, soaking wet. Stunned.

They needed to stop. Part of Eliot was so desperate to stop, in fact, that it started negotiating with the rational part of him. _We could camp here and just get up earlier_, the desperation said. _We made up time on the water. You don't know that they're gaining on us. You don't know._

It was only out of sheer force of will that he started walking towards the underbrush.

"Standing around ain't going to get us any closer to San Jose," he said, a declaration made as much to himself as to Nate.

Eliot took the lead, pushing the brush now since he had no machete, and the branches and leaves slapped and nicked at him as he went. They walked in silence, each of them struggling.

Near nightfall, they came across a large, tunnel-like cave that cut a straight path through a large cluster of rocks.

Eliot limped in and looked around, making sure it was clear of anything that might pose a threat. All he wanted to do was collapse on the ground and lay there and sleep. He was tired, he was physically and mentally tired, and he was plagued with doubt.

He had a concussion - he was sure of that from the dizzying pain in his head - and he probably had at least a partially torn ACL. He estimated that they'd made five miles before nightfall . . . and that took them over four hours. How were either of them going to make it another ten?

_You never will_, a voice said in his head. _You never will._

"You okay?" Nate asked.

Eliot looked over at him. Nate's eyes were glassy, and his whole body seemed slumped forward with exhaustion, but his brow was creased with that genuine concern again, the same concern he'd had when he saw Eliot's dizzy spell on the boulder, and Eliot felt a hot rush of guilt for letting himself despair.

They were too close now. They were far too close to hang it up, and neither one of them could let themselves get down if they were going to make it. They had to be bigger than Cesar Ventura, bigger than the jungle they were in, bigger than themselves.

Eliot took a deep breath a steeled himself. He nodded and then he spoke with a conviction that defied every other thought in his head and their circumstances, too. "I'm good," he said. "We both are."


	18. Chapter 17

_Guaviare Department, Colombia__  
__October 2004_  
_Day 5 and 6_

That night, Eliot chanced a fire. They were downwind of Ventura, and the light and the smell would stay mostly within the high arch of the cave. And they needed it. Not the warmth or the light, but that primal comfort. Eliot was so ready for it, in fact, he might have built one no matter if Ventura was three feet away.

Nate gathered anything they could use as kindling and firewood and piled it in the cave while Eliot limp-walked into the jungle and gathered fruit and killed the only thing slow enough that he could get a handle on - a young python. He sparked the fire and skinned the snake with carefully selected stones. Then he set about fixing dinner.

He laid freshly cut palm leaves on top of a rock in two separate sheets. The snake meat was the length of two belts, and it had the look of certain kinds of fish - pinkish-grey with darker streaks of red. Eliot cut it into portions and divided them over the leaves. Then he took a few of the little citrus fruits he'd found and gouged them open with his thumbnail, squeezing the juice over the meat. He juiced them and tore the remaining skin and pulp into pieces and he added those to the meat, too. Then he wrapped it all up into two bundles, carefully pulling a few strands of palm loose to form string that he used to tie them.

Nate sat on the floor of the cave, legs stretched out next to the fire, leaning back against a large rock. He ate a passion fruit and watched Eliot with interest - and increasing amusement. "What are you," he asked as Eliot placed the bundles flush against the fire, "some kind of mercenary chef?"

Eliot grinned and maneuvered himself into a sitting position on the other side of the fire, facing Nate. "I do a little cooking," he said, bending and flexing his knee. "Helps relax me."

"Hmm," Ford said. "Maybe you should do that more."

Eliot chuckled. "Maybe," he admitted. "Kinda hard when I'm dragging yer ass all over the jungle, though."

"Ah, well," Nate smirked. "I guess there is that."

Eliot reached for the boat oar that he'd been using as a walking stick and used the narrow end to turn and rearrange the little palm bundles every five minutes or so, so each side got the right amount of heat. When he'd turned the each bundle to its last "cold" side, he leaned back on his palms. Nate was watching the fire, the warm light dancing with the shadows across his face and in the curls of his hair.

"So . . . what are you getting the kid for his birthday?" Eliot asked.

He half thought the subject might get a prickly response, but at the mention of his son, Nate's eyes went soft, and he smiled. When he spoke, his voice was full of pride.

"Sam likes to build," he said. "From the minute he could lift a block he was stacking it on another one. And this kid, his focus is just -" Nate waved his hand in the air - "off the charts. He'd spend an hour building these huge lego structures when he was _two_. So we build a lot of things together, you know. Model airplanes, model ships, that kind of thing.

"And he's, uh, he's had his eye on this model tree house. You make it out of popsicle sticks. And it actually comes with the tree, too, this, uh . . . branch I guess, a piece of a real tree . . and it's mounted on a flat platform, and they cut to look like a tree."

Eliot could see Nate and his kid at a kitchen table in the evening, lit only by an overhead light, laying out all their supplies, all their materials, the blueprint unfolded before them.

"Sounds like a good gift."

"Oh yeah, but that's only part of it," Nate smiled, raising his eyebrows. "He's gonna open that, and he's gonna be all excited, but then I'm gonna show him what I've got in the garage."

"And what's that?"

"A pallet of two-by-fours and shingles," Nate grinned. "We're gonna make a model. _Then we're gonna make the real thing_."

Eliot couldn't hold back his own broad smile at Nate's enthusiasm. And no doubt, his kid would be thrilled. He and his father had never built a tree house together, but they had done a few projects - just the two of them - and those were some of his fondest memories of his dad.

Nate sighed, his eyes going distant, and Eliot thought he must be imagining Sam's reaction.

"He's going to be so excited, Nate said, and there was a sudden wistfulness in his voice that took Eliot by surprise, made something twist painfully in his chest. Nate was preparing himself to miss it.

He didn't think they were going to make it.

"He's gonna be even more excited when he sees you there," Eliot said quickly, refusing to accept that possibility.

Nate looked up at him and smiled. "That's right," Nate said, but he didn't seem entirely convinced. Then he looked at the fire. "Isn't that snake meat ready yet? I'm starving over here?"

* * *

They ate in silence, except for Nate's bemused observation that python tasted "just like chicken." When they finished, Nate took care of the palm leaves and added wood to the fire, wincing as the worst sections of his feet hit the ground. Then he plopped back down again by the fire.

He picked up small pebbles from the ground nearby and tossed a few into the fire. "Look," he told Eliot, taking a deep breath. "I have to tell you. Thanks for everything."

Eliot scowled, and the fatalism in Nate's voice hit an anger button in his brain that almost made him growl. "You're paying me, Ford. And you ain't home, yet."

Nate shrugged and stared at the fire. There was something inscrutable in his eyes, along with the firelight. "You know, you were the sixth guy I looked at for this job."

"Oh yeah?" Eliot pursed his lips and stuck his chin out, trying to play it cool. Which lasted about ten seconds. Then his curiosity got the better of him. "Who else?" He asked.

"Guy named Pratt?"

"Don't know him."

Nate ticked off a few other names, ones that Eliot had heard but didn't have any experience with. Then he arrived on the last two.

"Quinn."

"Quinn? Ugh, that guy is such an ass. I _hate_ that guy."

Nate smiled. "Roper."

"Roper!?" He was appalled. "Roper?! Seriously? Roper? That guy's, like, two feet tall. He's a freakin' Oompa Loompa!"

Nate laughed, as big of a laugh as he'd had since Eliot had known him. "You're not exactly Wilt Chamberlain yourself you know."

Eliot started to object but then he stopped. He had to kind of admit that one.

"You were the last guy," Nate said, the laughter fading from his voice as he grew thoughtful. "But the more I looked at you, the more I knew you were the one."

"Oh yeah? And how exactly did you know that?"

"Because you have a code."

Eliot was so stunned by that, he couldn't form a response. Then he got angry. Furious. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah I do."

Eliot laughed, a vicious, acrimonious laugh. "And here I thought you were good at readin' people."

"I am outstanding at reading people."

Eliot shook his head. "I don't have any fucking code, I'll tell you that."

Nate readjusted himself, taking off his shoes and socks and pulling away from the rock he was leaning against and laying flat beside the fire, one arm tucked under his head. "I know you're the only guy who didn't leave a body count in every place on the map he's visited. know you could have killed Sato and a bunch of other guys in a cargo hold in Japan and you walked away. Even though it wasn't your easiest play."

"You talked to Sato, huh?"

"I talked to a lot of people."

"Yeah? Well you shoulda done a little more research, because you got this one wrong Ford. You know that? Huh? You got a misfire right there."

Nate smiled over at him and then he turned his face towards the arc of the cave roof and closed his eyes. "Goodnight, Eliot."

* * *

When Ford was asleep, Eliot started moving. He was bone tired. His head was throbbing, and his knee was on fire, but he was pissed off and stewing about the total crap Ford had spewed about him and some kind of code. And he knew, too, that he needed to keep moving or his knee would stiffen to the point of being unusable. He couldn't afford to really rest it.

So he worked it in intervals, resting for 15 minutes and walking for 15 minutes. It was a hard process to get started, but once he'd gone through a few repetitions, it had an almost zen-like calming effect. When he was resting, he slept. When he was walking, he was focused only on his knee and on taking the right kind of steps.

(He didn't admit to himself that the zen approach also saved him from thinking about whether or not he had any kind of code whatsoever.)

Near 2 a.m., just as he was coming off a rest interval, he got the smell of smoke in his nostrils. Their own fire still burned, but the smoke was headed away from where he stood in the cave. He jerked up, standing, and his knee nearly buckled on him.

He took a few tentative steps until he felt like he could take more. Then he went to investigate.

It took him over half an hour to go a mile, and while he was being deliberately slow, to avoid any kind of detection, he could have accomplished the same task in half the time if his knee hadn't been such a cluster fuck.

He'd barely gone a tenth past the first mile when saw the guard. He was just a kid, maybe fourteen, fifteen, and he was slouched against a tree near the edge of a rocky ledge, dozing. Down below, there was a camp - men in homemade hammocks, men in tents. He did not see Cesar, but he knew, of course, that he was there. And the natives had it right. There were well over a dozen of them, and if there weren't twenty, it was only because there must have been others standing watch at strategic intervals.

Eliot eased himself away, his knee threatening to expose him at almost every step. When he was at a safe distance, he picked up the pace as much as he could stand.

Then he went faster.

By the time he reached their cave, sweat was rolling off of him, and he was nearly gasping with the pain from each step.

"Nate!" He hissed. "Get up man!"

He'd half-expected to have to drag Ford out of his slumber, but the insurance man must have heard the urgency in Eliot's voice, because he jerked awake, groggy but tense, alarmed.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Ventura. He's just over a mile back."

Nate started moving. He tugged on his bloody-watery socks and grabbed for his shoes, grimacing as he yanked them over the raw sores on his feet. "They're coming?"

"They will be. They're in camp now, but once they've got daylight, you can bet your ass they'll be coming."

Nate's hands flew around the laces of his boots, his voice breathless as he spoke. "Okay, okay. So. We get moving now, and we keep moving and we stay ahead."

"That's the idea."

Nate hauled himself up. He hobbled on his bad feet towards the jungle, and Eliot hobbled on his bad knee right behind him.

When Nate got to the mouth of the cave, though, he hesitated. The cave was still faintly lit by the firelight; beyond it, there was nothing but jungle noise and impenetrable darkness. It seemed impossibly forbidding.

Then Eliot spoke.

"Just follow the river," he said, "you'll be fine."

Nate turned, and even in the dim light, the stunned look on his face was plain to see.

_You'll_ be fine. Not _we_ will.

Nate's face was lined with fatigue, but his blue eyes were big and questioning, and for the first time, Eliot noticed a few strands of grey along his temples. He looked twenty years older and twenty years younger all at once.

"What are talking about about, Eliot?" he asked, his voice was almost a whisper. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting you home for your son's birthday."


	19. Chapter 18

_Guaviare Department, Colombia  
__October 2004  
__Day 6__  
_

_"Just follow the river, you'll be fine."_

It was their best play. Eliot knew it before he even got back to the campsite. His knee wasn't going to hold out. Their only chance was to stop playing chase and start playing offense. For him to stop playing chase and start playing offense.

"What are you doing, Eliot?" Nate asked, with that old-young face; with a soft-serious voice that made it clear that he knew exactly what Eliot was doing, and he didn't like it one bit.

"I'm getting you home for your son's birthday."

"I- . . . Eliot . . ."

"This is what I do. Those guys'll be so busy trailing you they won't even see me coming."

"So you're just going to . . . what? Take out twenty guys with a . . . with a bad knee and a concussion?"

"Well, yeah, it's not really fair for them, but hey . . . " He grinned and shrugged.

Nate let out a breathy laugh. Or maybe it was an exasperated huff. He clearly didn't find it funny.

"Listen, man," Eliot told him. "I ain't playing martyr here. If you talked to Sato, you know. I can handle myself in a crowd, limp or no limp."

Nate looked at him closely. Then he sighed and looked out at the jungle darkness again, and Eliot saw something in his eyes, that intelligence sparking them from behind as he turned it over and ran through it. The Insurance Terminator saw the logic in it. He knew he'd be more hindrance than help in a full-blown confrontation, and he knew there was no way the two of them together were outrunning Ventura and his men.

He just didn't want to leave a man behind.

Eliot gave him a nudge, a literal one, pushing him on the shoulder. "You're wasting time, man. Get your ass moving."

"What'll you do?" Nate said, still looking away.

"I'll take care of business. And I'll take a later flight."

"I don't like it," Nate turned to look back at him. The firelight was waning now, the shadows growing longer across his face. Then he spoke with great reluctance. "But I'll do it."

"Good," Eliot said, relief flooding over him. "And for god's sake, Ford, get cleaned up at be airport. You're a mess."

Nate smiled. He took a deep breath. "Good luck, Eliot."

"You too."

"You ever need a reference . . ."

"That assumes anybody gives a shit what you think."

Nate laughed, genuine and loud and just manic enough that it bent him over at the waist. When he straightened himself up, he looked back at Eliot, solemn. He held out his hand, and Eliot took it. They shook.

Then Nate pulled away and stepped out from the safety of the cave, a shadow moving in the dark. He was just about to disappear into the trees when Eliot saw him stop. Turn back.

"Hey, Eliot," he called.

"What?"

"You still think you don't have a code?"

Before Eliot could answer - even think of a response that might hit just the right amount of sarcasm and _you-think-you're-so-smart!_ defiance - Nate had turned his back and was rustling through the brush. He was gone.

* * *

Eliot lingered for a few minutes, listening to Nate go. In the dark, with rough jungle hiking - and in his condition - Eliot'd give him two miles an hour, even as motivated as he was. The FARC, once they knew they were close, would go twice that, probably even faster.

_You're it_, Eliot told himself. _The last line of defense._

If they got past him, Ford was toast. He wouldn't make it back to California for anything except his own funeral.

In the dark of early morning, Eliot figured he had two good hours before the FARC showed up at their camp, a bit more maybe. The first thing he did was take a good long hike himself, in a direction more northeast than Ford had gone. Creating another trail, forcing the FARC to split up to continue their pursuit.

He used their canoe oar like a crutch, saving some weight on his knee, but even the slightest bit of push against his right foot sent a burst pain through the joint, so strong he felt it down into his toes.

Maybe a half mile from their camp, he snapped branches off some of the trees, and snapped them again. The tops of them he rubbed vigorously along a rough, flat stone, sweat flying from his face as he worked. By the time he was done, he had two dozen eighteen-inch spikes.

He used the oar and a long, thin rock to dig a trench. Not too big - just wide enough for a foot - and long enough to cover the width of trampled-down path he'd made. He placed stones in the bottom and wedged the spikes into them, point up. Then he placed a few palm fronds over the trench and topped it all off with a thin layer of decaying leaves and plant matter from the jungle floor, until it blended in perfectly.

He was breathing hard by the time he made it back to the camp almost an hour later, shoulders heaving. He felt like Ford had looked at the end of every hike - winded and spent.

He had no time to waste, though.

He snapped off another bunch of branches and made more spikes and dug another trench, this one about a half mile into the narrow path left by Ford as he'd walked close to the river.

The he went back to the camp again. He took off his shirt and laid it flat on the ground, placing fist-sized rocks in the center. Then he gathered the ends all around it, and twisted and tied the fabric until he had a heavy, solid bundle dangling from one of his sleeves. Then he found a long, thick branch that he could use as a spear - something that didn't have a paddle on the end to skew its accuracy when it was thrown - and he rubbed the end of that into a long, narrow point, too.

He may not have a machete, but now at least he'd be armed.

By the time he finished, the light was enough that he could see quite clearly, and he knew the FARC would be there soon. He gathered up his weapons and started down the trail of bent palm branches and scuffed jungle floor that Nate had left behind. One way or the other, that was Nathan Ford's last trail in this godforsaken jungle. And one way or the other, it was going to be his, too.


	20. Chapter 19

_Guaviare Department, Colombia  
__October 2004  
__Day 6_

He had it in his head how it would play out.

They would find the camp, and they would find the two paths. They would split up.

Someone from each group would stumble into the trap, and the spikes would hold up enough to cause injury, and he'd have two less FARC guys able to fight. And really, more important: he'd get in their heads. They wouldn't risk stumbling blind into any more snares, so they would slow down, scouting carefully, looking for trenches and trip wires.

He would find a place deep into Nate's trail, and then he would find a place to lie in wait. There was bound to be a straggler, and he'd take that one out first.

Hopefully, that guy would have a decent knife or two that he'd add to his weapon collection. Then he'd take them out from behind as best he could. He could probably take out at least another two before they realized something was wrong. Then . . . well. Then things would get interesting.

And as it turned out, that's pretty much how things went.

He went about a mile and a half into Nate's trail, and he found a nice dip in the ground off to the side. He burrowed down into it - forcing himself to move his throbbing knee - until he was covered in dirt and decaying leaves, completely camouflaged, peeking out through the holes in his cover. Then he waited, ignoring the feel of bugs on the bare skin of his chest and back. The feel of something distinctly snake-like slithering along his side and disappearing somewhere behind him.

He heard the screams of the men who'd found the traps.

Then, several minutes later, he heard the first whisper of careful footsteps on the brush on Nate's trail.

The air in his little burrow was hot and moist, and as he looked out of the darkness through the small openings in his cover, he saw the ankles and legs of the men walking by, and the barrels of their guns held pointed downward.**  
**

Eight cleared by, and Eliot was left alone in his burrow, waiting.

And waiting.

He was beginning to doubt whether there were any stragglers, when he heard more rushed footsteps coming down the trail.

_That's right_, he thought, and he couldn't resist a feral grin. He was on the hunt now.

* * *

The straggler was easy enough. It was harder to move quietly with his knee throbbing and slipping sideways on him than it was to actually take the guy out. A quick forearm around the throat, hand over the mouth, and he was out in a matter of seconds.

He got the next two guys, too, but the FARC knives were for crap, and the ones he threw at FARC 4 and FARC 5 totally missed their mark, one plunking into a tree trunk, the other one bouncing off a rock face and skittering harmlessly across the ground.

They immediately turned on him, pulling their guns, and he managed to limp-run through the brush with his spear and his sling, branches and leaves slapping at him. He dove behind a cluster of rocks and boulders near a shallow ravine, resting his back against them. He started tracking his surroundings - the ravine was maybe 15 feet down, but long and narrow enough to be a kill box; the rock formations were too scattered to provide decent cover as slow as he was.

Then he heard a familiar voice.

"Senor Spencer. Once again I find you in . . . my neck of the woods."

_Cesar Ventura._

"Hey! Cesar!" he called, straining to keep the pain out of his voice. "Are you here, too? What are the chances?"

"You have made quite a mess of things, Spencer," he said, offhandedly, and Eliot could just see him examining his fingernails again.

"Hey man, I told you. Losing a client's bad for business."

"Dying is rather bad for business, too . . . no?"

Eliot shrugged from his hiding place. _True. Very true._

"You know," Ventura said, as if he was barely paying attention to what he was saying, "it is very difficult to speak when I am over here, and you are so far over there. You should come out. So we can speak face to face. _Like men_."

"You want to do some_ talking_, do you?" Eliot asked. "Not just shooting the minute I show my face?"

"I want us to settle this, you and I. My men will not bother you. They have gone after Ford. It is just the two of us now."

Eliot's stomach sank. He listened carefully and heard nothing. Then he stood and turned, facing Cesar, and his stomach sank even further when he realized Ventura was telling the truth. They were alone.

He could only hope he'd bought Nate enough time to get to San Jose.

Ventura looked him over and shook his head, that _tsk tsk_ back again. "I told you, Senor Spencer, the jungle moves fast. You were not fast enough, I see." Then the faintly amused, patronizing look on his face changed to pure malice. "You friend will not be either."

"We'll see," Eliot said, trying to pretend he wasn't the least bit worried about that.

Cesar began walking towards him. "It is too bad you are so injured. It would have given me more pleasure to kill you when you were at your full strength."

Eliot let out a soft, short laugh, and he stayed where he stood as Cesar approached. His bare chest and his arms were streaked with dirt and blood. All of his weight rested on his left leg, and he was swaying. His arms hung limp at his sides. He was sure he must have looked like he was about to fall over.

Which was exactly what he wanted.

When Cesar was barely ten feet away, Eliot stopped swaying.

His shirt-sling had been just behind him the whole time, resting by his foot, and he'd kept his fingers on the sleeve, holding them loosely just behind his thigh, hidden from Cesar's view.

Now he wrapped his fingers tight around the sleeve and whipped it in two quick circles before letting it fly, like David hurling his stone at Goliath. Cesar's eyes grew wide, and he just managed to get a hand up. He managed to just deflect it - _Jesus, he's fast_, Eliot thought - before the sling barely glanced off his temple.

Cesar staggered back, stunned, but he gathered himself quickly, and he stood upright. He held up his injured hand, flexing the fingers, testing it. He had blood streaming down the side of his cheek. And an extremely pissed off look on his face.

_Well fuck,_ Eliot thought. That had not gone as well as he had hoped. Not at all.

In seconds, Cesar was on him, grabbing him by the shoulders and throwing him through the brush. Monkeys screamed their displeasure, and birds squawked, abandoning their tree limbs in flocks, and Eliot was again amazed - and grudgingly impressed - at Cesar's speed. It was entirely unfair that someone that big and bulky should be that fast.

Eliot got to his good knee just in time to give Cesar a nice open path to his solar plexus, and he wasted no time planting the steel toe of his boot there. Eliot let loose a strangled _oomph_ as all the air rushed from his lungs.

Then Cesar's thick, long fingers were digging into his shoulders as he was jerked up again. Eliot was ready this time, though. He drove his forehead forward, straight between Cesar's eyes, and the man staggered back.

But he didn't release his hold on Eliot's shoulders, and Eliot was pulled forward with him, struggling to stay upright with the gimpy knee. He tried to drive a fist straight into Cesar's windpipe, but the big man managed to block him. And then plant a boot right into Eliot's injured knee.

Eliot tried - _he tried_ - to bite back the cry, but it flew from his mouth before he could clamp his lips down on it. He collapsed to the ground. It felt like something exploded in him, the pain filling his leg from toes to groin.

He must have blacked out for a second, because he didn't even realize Cesar had him upright again until he felt like he was flying.

It was just like going over the waterfall in the river, his stomach flipping upside down as he fell backwards, hands grasping blindly, instinctively for some kind of hold but finding only air. He hit the ground with a violent jolt.

As he lay there on his back, staring up at the jungle canopy, it dawned on him that Cesar had thrown him into the ravine. He saw Cesar's face looming high above him just as his world faded to black.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for your patience on this one! I hope you all enjoy it. Things are looking grim for Eliot. What will happen next? Next update sooner than the last one . . . I hope!**


	21. Chapter 20

_Guaviare Department, Colombia  
October 2004  
Day 7_

It wasn't the first time Eliot woke up in a hospital but it may have been the most surprising.

When he cracked an eyelid to florescent lights and an IV bag instead of a jungle canopy, he was so disoriented that for a moment, he thought maybe he'd hallucinated the last few weeks. That he'd been injured doing something else entirely, and the jungle was just a dream. Had he really set traps for Ventura and a small army of FARC? Fought Ventura with a gimpy knee and a concussion and gotten his ass kicked?

He looked around.

He was alone in a small room. He was wearing a hospital gown. He was clean . . ish.

The door to the hallway was slightly ajar, and there were soft hospital sounds coming through: warbled announcements over the intercom system; the squeaking of a cart being pushed by; a phone ringing just outside in the corridor. There was a plastic hospital bracelet on his wrist, and the IV needle was in his hand.

He flung the sheet back and propped himself up on his elbows.

His right knee was in a brace, the leg elevated from thigh to foot, and in a flash, he was surrounded by churning water, knee burning, trapped until he almost drowned - a memory so vivid and so sudden, he almost hyperventilated.

Which pretty much eliminated any thought that the jungle may have been a dream.

_Oh yeah. That happened._

His leg was pain free, but he had a faint throbbing somewhere deep in his skull, the way a concussion felt when it was tucked underneath a blanket of painkillers. His knuckles were scraped and bruised, and his ribs pulled uncomfortably at the strain of sitting upright. He'd also lost a good ten pounds from the exertion and undernourishment of the past few days.

Through the crack in his door, he could see the edge of a nurse's station and a nurse talking on the phone, and he could just make out her conversation with the pharmacy about the noon-time medications.

_Noon._

He laid back and pulled the sheet up again, staring at the ceiling.

If it was noon now, it must be at least a day later. The hospital was big enough and modern enough that he must be in San Jose del Guaviare. He was alone, unguarded. If there were any FARC men around, he didn't see them or any indication from the hospital staff that something was amiss.

He was thinking about buzzing for a nurse when a voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Ah senor, you're awake."

* * *

The hairs on the back of Eliot's neck stood on end at the sound of the voice - smooth, relaxed, icy. He turned to the doorway, expecting Ventura, but his ears were playing tricks on him.

There was a soldier there instead, an officer. Eliot blinked at him, trying to recall where he'd seen the man before, when it hit him. It was Gutierrez, the soldier from their first day in Miraflores.

And then he was confused again.

_What the hell?_

He tried to keep his features still, to reveal nothing, but he could tell from the way Gutierrez smiled at him that he hadn't fully hid how perplexed he really was.

Gutierrez moved to the foot of the bed, his long, thin fingers curling lightly around the rail, that doberman-thin face split with a smug grin. "I was just stopping by to wish you _buenos viajes._"

Eliot stared at him. He had an easy posture about him, Eliot wasn't sensing a threat, but _good travels_. That was ambiguous. _What the hell did that mean?_

" . . . thanks," Eliot said.

"Don't mention it. You are a very lucky man, Mister . . . _Spence_," Gutierrez said, landing hard on Eliot's alias from Miraflores. "Very lucky indeed. If we had not found you when they did, Cesar Ventura would have skinned you alive."

"Is that right?" Eliot said. Then he decided to do a little fishing. "I guess it's lucky you were on patrol."

Gutierrez's eyes narrowed at that, and his smile changed, grew cagey. "What makes you think we were on patrol?"

"I just figured, you know. Why else would you guys be so deep in the jungle?"

"Hm," he said, considering that. "Yes, well. One might ask the same question _about a sports agent_."

Eliot's hackles started to rise at that, at the threat that seemed implicit there, but then Gutierrez laughed. "Senor, I am not here to make trouble for you. You must have taken quite a blow to the head, hm? Don't you remember when we found you?"

"I remember a few things," Eliot said defensively.

"Do you?" Gutierrez sighed. Whatever game he was playing, he was getting tired of it. He turned towards the door. "Any time you and Senor Gillis want to visit Colombia again, you are more than welcome in my territories." He smiled. "I have found your visit quite . . . rewarding."

"_Gillis_?" Eliot asked, alarm bells going off at the mention of Nate's alias.

"Yes, of course," Gutierrez said without turning back around. "How else would we have known where to find you?"

His hand grasped the door knob, but he paused and turned. "You have a good friend there, Spence. Not many men would have done what he did for someone who was as good as dead."

And then he was out the door, pulling it partially shut behind him.

* * *

Eliot lay in bed puzzling out what must have happened.

Nate must've had gotten back to San Jose and gone to the military before he went to the airport. And he had managed to talk Gutierrez into going back for him. The man sucked at jungle hiking, but he was smooth, Eliot had to give him that. And he must've been able to orient himself enough along his long solo hike to give the military accurate directions back to him, too.

Eliot smiled. Insurance Terminator indeed.

Then he closed his eyes and let himself relax - really relax - for the first time in weeks.

They had done it.

They had traveled hundreds of miles on foot through some of the densest jungles in the world, with the cartel and the FARC on their heels, and they'd made it.

He was alive and Nate was in a plane, probably on a final approach into Los Angeles.

Eliot was laying there like that, listening to the ambient noise outside in the hall, when he picked up the shuffling of feet across the floor, and a voice.

A man's voice, soft-toned and worn, with that slight nasal lengthening of the vowels.

"Excuse me," he said in Spanish to someone outside. "They said you'd have a phone I could use?"

_Nate._

* * *

Eliot sat upright so quickly he almost pulled something. He looked out the crack in his room door just in time to see Nate move past in the hallway to the nurse's station. He looked freshly shaved and showered, his hair still wet and pushed back from his face, curling against the back of his neck. He wore a pair of track pants and a t-shirt, and his left arm was in a sling. His rubber sports sandals showed the bandages on his feet.

Something about seeing him from this distance, from this vantage point, made him seem taller to Eliot.

He and the nurse spoke for a bit - exchanging pleasantries, Nate promising he would reverse the charges - and then she lifted a phone onto the counter. Eliot heard Nate pressing the buttons on the dial pad.

Nate cleared his throat as he waited for the call to connect. Then he was speaking.

"Hey Mags," he said softly. And then very quickly: "No, no, I'm okay. I just, uh . . . I had no way to call, you know? It's a jungle down here. Literally."

There was a short silence, and Nate spoke again, a fond smile in his voice. "Yeah? I miss you, too. I miss you both."

Eliot shifted in his bed to get into a more comfortable position.

Nate had his good elbow on his counter, his head bent low and tilted against the receiver. "Yeah, well, I've got some bad news about that," he said. "I'm not going to make it in time . . . no, no, I'm fine, I promise you. It's just-" he sighed. "Things got complicated. I'm gonna catch a flight this afternoon, but it won't put me back in LA until tomorrow morning."

There was another silence, and Eliot knew that Maggie must have been telling him how disappointed Sam would be, because when Nate spoke again, there was a terrible sadness in his voice. "I know he will. I am too."

Then Nate was quiet again, listening again, until Maggie said something that made him laugh - a bitter, rueful laugh. "Nope. No artifact either. I'm a big 0-fer on this one."

Eliot frowned. _What?!_ How could that be? The croc was the one thing -

Then he remembered what Gutierrez had said.

He'd found their visit _rewarding_.

Then it struck him: Gutierrez hadn't marched a bunch of his men into the jungle out of the goodness of his own heart. That man was motivated by one thing: personal gain. And there was only one thing of value that Nate had on him when he left Eliot in the jungle. The crocodile.

_Not many men would have done what he did for someone who was as good as dead._

The words tickled down his spine like a shiver. Nate hadn't sent Gutierrez and his men back into the jungle with directions. That theory - that Nate would have been able to provide them with precise locations - had seemed amazing when he first landed on it, and now he realized it had been just plain stupid.

Nate hadn't sent Gutierrez and his men back into the jungle with directions. He'd led them back to Eliot himself. And he'd missed his deadline - his son's birthday - to do it.

And as the heavy weight of that settled on Eliot's chest, he laid back in the bed, head propped on the pillows again.

"I'll tell you about it when I get home," Nate was saying, "but I promise I had a very good reason for it. . . . look, let me tell Sam okay? . . . okay . . . yeah, I love you, too."

Nate was silent for a few seconds, but then he was talking again, a sudden exuberance in his voice. "Hey buddy! Happy birthday! . . . you excited for your party? . . . yeah? . . . that's great, that sounds very cool . . ." his voice trailed off, and Eliot could almost feel the growing sadness even before he heard Nate speak again.

"Look about today, Sam." He took a deep breath. "I'm not going to be able to be there today."

Eliot couldn't help but look into the hallway again, and Nate's head seemed just a little lower than before, his shoulders slumped now as he listened to his son's response.

"I know buddy, I know I did, and I am so so sorry. I just - . . . I know, I know. But listen. You know I would never miss your birthday unless I had no choice, right? Right? Because I wouldn't, Sam. I wouldn't break a promise to you unless there was absolutely nothing in the world I could do to help it, okay? . . . well, there was a man I was working with who got in trouble. He got hurt. And if I hadn't taken the time to help him, he might have gotten hurt a lot worse. And I couldn't just leave him and let him get hurt real bad, okay? Do you understand?"

Eliot closed his eyes.

"Well, we were in the jungle," Nate started and then he laughed at Sam's response on the line. "Yeah, a real jungle! Monkeys and scorpions and men with spears and poison darts and the works- . . . Yes! I'm telling you the truth . . . Look, I'll tell you about it when I get home, I swear, but I've got to get going here, I've got a plane to catch. . . .."

There was a silence before Ford spoke again. "Well, when I get there, we're going to do some fun things, just you and me, okay? . .

"Great . . .

"Yeah? You promise? Good.

"I love you, too, Sam."

Eliot let loose a deep sigh.

He expected to hear the receiver placed back on the phone cradle, but Sam must have asked him one last question. He heard Nate say, "What's that? Oh. Well."

"Yeah," Nate said, as if he hadn't ever considered the question Sam had asked him.

Then he spoke with conviction: "Yeah. He is a friend."

* * *

Nate had left for the airport almost as soon as he got off the phone. As he walked by Eliot's room, the ginger shuffling of his feet came to a stop, and Eliot closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

(Which definitely had nothing to do with the fact that he was not quite ready to see the man whose private conversation with his son he'd just eavesdropped on.)

The door creaked softly as Nate pushed it open, and Eliot heard him take three limping steps into the room. There was a silence, and Eliot could hear Nate breathing. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

It was like a stand-off, except no one was admitting that Eliot was awake for it.

Just as Eliot was steeling himself to open his eyes, Nate retreated, and the door creaked almost shut.

Eliot kept his eyes closed as Nate went, listening to those limping footsteps as they grew softer and softer before they disappeared down the hall.

* * *

**A/N: So readers, are you brandishing pitchforks right about now? I know, I know . . . Nate didn't make the deadline. But I was going for bittersweet here, and if there is anything that would have caused Nate to willingly miss that deadline, it would be saving another person's life. I don't think he would have any real regrets about that choice - sad about missing it, yes; but regrets about placing someone's life first, no.**

** Also, the bond that Nate has with Eliot on the show has been second only to his bond with Sophie, and Eliot trusts Nate despite all his occasional craziness, so the idea that they've got some real deep, real personal back story that contributes to that bond and trust definitely makes sense, at least to me.**

**I really hope you've enjoyed so far. Epilogue is coming soon.**


	22. Epilogue

_Los Angeles, California_  
_December 25, 2004_

Christmastime in LA was . . . different.

Eliot had been in warm climates around Christmas before, so string lights on palm trees wasn't exactly a novelty for him. But in L.A., the decorations took on a certain aggressive kookiness.

Whole blocks of houses - whole neighborhoods - seemed to be trying to out-kitsch each other. He drove down one street where at least twenty houses had some outrageous outdoor display featuring metallic tinsel Christmas trees. There was a house with a silver twenty-footer on a floating platform in the pool; one with a forest of magenta and blue trees on its roof; one with an impressionistic sculpture of a tree made from parts of other tinsel trees.

Eliot was surprised to admit it, but he kind of liked it.

In fact, he seemed to be liking most things these days. He was in an all around alarmingly good mood.

He'd spent a hefty portion of his recovery crashing with Tiffany, the helpful, button-nosed airline attendant from LAX, and he was in such a good mood that he let her drag him around all over town, introducing him to all her naive young friends. Kids, the lot of them. Semi-formed lumps who wore their cynicism and indifference like a badge of honor.

Ordinarily, he might have been tempted to kick some overly-snarky ass, but now, he didn't even scowl at the hipster outside her apartment who nearly ran him over because he was too busy yakking on his phone to pay attention to where he was going.

He was in such a good mood, in fact, that when Chapman made his monthly call, Eliot he felt no anger, no dread and no anxiety. He even made a point to send his old friend a Christmas card.

* * *

His knee was back to normal, or close to it.

(He'd tested it out on a quick side trip to Colombia a week earlier.)

He wouldn't be a starting running back in the NFL any time soon, but it was good enough to get him through that little excursion, and he was confident that it would get him through the next one, too - a security job in Switzerland, this one for another insurance company.

His second legit client in as many jobs.

(Thanks, he knew, to a recommendation from his first legit client.)

He was sure he'd be doing his fair share of shady work, too, in the future, but it felt good to mix things up, to walk in the light for a while instead of always slinking around in the shadows like some goddamn vampire.

It took some of the weight off his shoulders - a weight he had carried so long he had forgotten it was even there.

* * *

He spent the three days leading up to Christmas in a wet suit, his hair a salty tangle. The nights, he and Tiffany spent on the beach with their toes in the sand, front sides baking in the heat of a bonfire while their back sides chilled in the dark.

On Christmas Eve, a group of surfers set up a mini-Christmas village in the parking area, blasting holiday songs from the sound system in the trunk of one guy's tricked-out El Camino. Eliot and Tiffany walked around, chatting with people, drinking beer in plastic cups drawn from a keg. There were inflatable reindeer and snow globes in the back of people's trucks, powered by their car batteries. There was a guy on a skateboard wearing a Santa suit.

They stayed there until sunrise.

The parking lot was on a bluff overlooking the beach, and while Tiffany spoke to some friends, Eliot slipped away and sat on the top step of the wooden stairs and watched the waves roll in as the sun came up.

He sipped his last beer and listened to _Feliz Navidad_ and slipped his hand into the pocket of his cargo shorts, rubbing his thumb over the smooth wood of the small carving inside.

When Tiffany came over to sit by him, he smiled at her. "Let me drop you off at your place. I've got one errand I need to do."

* * *

That was how he came to be squeezed between an elderberry bush and the back of Nate's wooden fence on Christmas morning, in a space very familiar to him, where he knew from experience that he could see the entire back yard through a knotty gash in one of the boards.

His side trip back to Colombia had been particularly . . . fruitful. It hadn't taken long to track down Gutierrez, to liquor him up under the guise of gratitude.

And Gutierrez was quite the chatty Cathy when plied with tequila.

Eliot had found out all about the crocodile, and the collector in Bogota that Gutierrez had sold it to.

(He'd also heard all about how Nate had stumbled into Gutierrez's outpost just outside San Jose del Guaviare, less than and hour and a half after he'd left Eliot. And also how he'd led them back into the jungle at the same punishing pace and promptly collapsed from exhaustion the moment Gutierrez's men intercepted Ventura's people.)

Eliot was quietly remembering how stunned he'd been to hear that part of Gutierrez's story when he heard Sam's voice, small and bright.

"See Daddy, I told you!"

"Okay okay, we see it!" Nate said. There was an amused concession in his tone, and Eliot knew that Sam must have been trying to get his parents outside for some time before they actually agreed to go.

The boy wore blue pajamas, decorated with planets and rocket ships, and he was tugging Nate by the hand out the back door towards the pool.

It was the first time he'd seen Nate since he'd glimpsed a sliver of him through the opening in his hospital room door. He looked good. He walked fine, both of his arms seemed to be fully functioning, and Eliot could swear that he looked almost tan.

Maggie was bringing up the rear, and even with her hair pulled back and no makeup and wearing a fuzzy robe, she was still beautiful.

The three of them stood by the steps of the pool, and peered across the early morning steam rising off the water to the diving board. There was a box on it, wrapped in bright red paper and topped with red bow and a small ornament - a two-inch tall metallic tinsel Christmas tree.

Maggie looked at Nate, and Nate shrugged at her. "I dunno. I didn't put it there."

Sam ran to other end of the pool, bare feet slapping on the concrete, and he nabbed the present from its spot close to the end of the diving board. He looked at the tag on it, and even though was just learning to sound words out, he knew how to read and write his name and his parents' names.

"It's for you!" He called to Nate.

"Let's see," Nate waved him back.

Sam brought it back to him, eager and attentive as Nate examined it. There was just the box, the bow and tinsel tree, and the card that didn't indicate who it was from, but when Nate saw that Sam was getting anxious - bouncing on the balls of his feet in fact - he took an extra long time eyeballing each corner, holding it up and turning it, and squinting down the lines of it.

Maggie smiled and rolled her eyes at Nate, but she let him tease the boy.

"Open it!" Sam finally yelled, and Eliot chuckled softly. He had to admit he was thinking the exact same thing, although he tried not to let the voice in his head sound too eager, too child like.

He was way too tough for that.

Nate smiled at his son and slid his fingertip between two sides of the paper, sliding it downward to pop the tape. He pulled it off, and Maggie dutifully took it, folding the paper and carefully putting the topper and the tinsel tree in the pocket of her robe.

When Nate lifted the top off the white box underneath, he seemed to freeze in place, and Eliot could almost hear the gasp that he could see Nate make.

"Nate?" Maggie questioned, stepping closer.

Nate gave her a reassuring smile. Then he reached in and pulled out the small statue, carved in dark wood.

"Is that what you went to Colombia for?" Maggie asked.

"That it is," Nate says, passing it off to her and looking at the bottom of the box. Eliot knew that he was finding the small, square card there.

Sam watched his mother examine the crocodile, while Nate opened the envelope.

"May I see?" the boy asked her, his voice lilting upward.

"Okay, but you have to be very careful bud," Maggie said, and she knelt by him as he looked at it.

Even from the distance, Eliot could tell that he took his responsibility very seriously. He took it lightly in both hands, and as he looked the statue over, he had such an intense, studious look on his face, like a little professor, and Eliot knew Sam Ford was a good, bright boy. His parents had done right by him.

Nate had the card separated from the envelope now, and he tucked the envelope into the slot between his side and his arm as he opened the card.

Eliot watched him stare at it for a long time, for longer than was necessary to read the two sentences Eliot had written there.

_ A little something I found in my pocket. Thought you could use it._

_ - A friend_

"Nate?" Maggie asked again.

"Hm?" Nate said, absently, still looking down at it.

He offered no further explanation about the card, and she gave him a bemused little look that told Eliot that this wasn't exactly the first time he'd been cagey about something work-related.

"Alright people," she finally announced, this time drawing Nate's attention. "Let's go make some breakfast."

"Oo, can we have chocolate chip pancakes?" Sam asked, bouncing on both feet like a kangaroo or a jackrabbit.

Eliot smiled as negotiations on that one began, and the family started towards the back door. Nate held it open while Maggie and Sam went inside with the crocodile.

He still had the envelope pressed against his side, the card in his hand, and he paused holding the door even after the others were inside. He turned back. He looked across the yard, his eyes sweeping the fence line, and when he reached the board with the gash in the knotted wood, he stopped.

Eliot held his breath.

Then Nate smiled, and he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible hitch of his chin, and Eliot found himself nodding, too, as if they were standing right in front of each other, staring right at each other, saying goodbye.

Then Nate turned away, and he was gone.

Back into the house, back into the place Eliot had helped him get back to, back with his family, where he belonged.

Eliot smiled and leaned his forehead against the rough wood of the fence. Jacques had been right, the crazy idiot wonderful Frenchie asshole. The Nathan Ford job had been good for him.

* * *

**A/N: So that's all folks. I hope you enjoyed it. **

**This was an interesting experience. It began as Nate-and-Eliot meet Midnight Run, but turned into a very Eliot-centric story, which was unusual for me since Nate's my favorite character. Still, it was interesting to get into this Eliot, who wasn't nearly as fully formed as the Eliot on the show, and I liked writing his ****development here - taking a big, solid step away from being the person he was with Moreau and - more importantly - realizing that he had it in himself to do it.**

**Thanks so much for everyone who reviewed - I really appreciate all your comments and I enjoyed reading them tremendously. I especially liked seeing those guesses and seeing where you guys knew exactly where I was going and where you didn't. **

**Thanks again to the great Conelrad who helped plan and contributed to some of the earlier chapters. I recommend her writing every chance I get for a reason - it's outstanding.**

**Whimseyrhodes - I appreciate your comment on the last chapter being anti-climactic. For me, that was a function of this being a third person limited perspective. We considered a third person omniscient, and had the story been told from that perspective, I would have toggled back and forth between Nate and Eliot in that chapter and there would have been more of the rescue. You also would have seen the exact moment where Nate decides to part with the croc and the moment where he decides to lead the soldiers back. **

**I suppose I could have just shifted the perspective anyway, - and I may consider inserting a bonus chapter that does that - but I wanted to remain true to the narrative voice for the entire story. And honestly for me, the scene in the hospital was more important than any action rescue would have been, although I understand for the readers wrapped up in the action of the moment, that may not have been the case.**

**Bonus chapter . . . hmm . . . **

**So once again, thanks - Stellaru, Sphinxius, Whimseyrhodes, dh2930, RoddieSeiko, Floralisette, SandyWMD, LadyCK7, SonicSerendipity, TheShoeGirl, WitchofDarkness13, AstridV, MagzM, Trekkieb and all the various guests who commented and others who read and/or favorited the story. **


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